


Walk Through the Darkest Valley

by elennalore



Series: Second Chances [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mairon is loyal to Melkor, Minor Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon, Past Abuse, Redemption, Relationship Discussions, Second Chances, fourth age valinor, post-LOTR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:16:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26441815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elennalore/pseuds/elennalore
Summary: In Valinor, reembodied Celebrimbor goes on a personal quest. With the help of the Ainur, he is searching Mairon, whose fate is unknown. Would it be wisest to let go of the past, or can there still be hope for Mairon? Celebrimbor doesn’t know the answer, but he’s not afraid to ask questions.
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar/Sauron | Mairon
Series: Second Chances [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2086146
Comments: 42
Kudos: 135





	1. Start

Celebrimbor stands in front of Aulë’s gates and hesitates a second before pulling the rope. The bell chimes loudly, it’s a beautiful sound, but he doesn’t like it. He hasn’t been reembodied for long, and loud voices are hard to endure still. Loud, metallic noises especially. He shudders. _What am I doing here?_ But he knows he has to do this. The thought has been in his mind even before Námo let him out of Mandos. Some people might say he was released too early, that he was not healed yet. But he knows you can heal only so much in Mandos. Some things you have to confront in real life to make a full recovery. And perhaps this is one of those things. That is, at least, what he explained to Námo.

One of Aulë’s Maiar opens the ornamental metal gate. He is dressed in his blacksmith clothes, like they probably all are here. The Maia stares questioningly at Celebrimbor, clearly not recognizing him.

“Can I help you, _Elda_?” he asks, a curious light in his eyes.

“Good afternoon, my name is Tyelperinquar,” he says and bows politely before the Maia. “I’m looking for Lord Aulë. I have written him a letter, explaining why I want to meet him. I wonder if he could grant me an audience today.”

“You don’t have an appointment?”

“Well, no,” he admits. “I wasn’t sure when I could come.” _Or when I was feeling strong enough to come_ , he adds silently.

“I see. Hm... I am sure Lord Aulë has at least a moment to share with you, Tyelperinquar. He wasn't that busy when I saw him a while ago. Please, come in, you’ll find him probably at the main forge. It’s that big stone building over there.”

He enters the courtyard warily, the sounds from the forges making him nervous. Oddly, the place still has a homely feel to it. This is a world he can understand. The thought steadies him, and he marches tall and proud up the stairs and to the doors of the main forge. The doors are opened before him. Vala Aulë stands in front of him, he doesn’t seem at all surprised to see him at the door. His smile is encouraging and warm like his whole being. Celebrimbor kneels. This is the first time he sees Aulë since he went into exile. Didn't he sometimes play here as a child, he wonders, trying to catch his fleeting memories.

“Tyelperinquar,” Aulë beams at him. “It’s so good to see you again. I got your letter.”

“Lord Aulë, could you perhaps spare me a few moments?”

“This is about what you asked in your letter, isn’t it?”

He nods, watching Aulë’s reaction. The letter has been his own idea. Even now he isn’t sure if it was a sensible thing to do, to come here.

Aulë seems to ponder the same thing. When he finally answers, his voice is heavy with sorrow. “It would be wisest for you to just let go of the past.”

“Perhaps so,” he says, stubbornly. “And yet, I come from a family that isn’t exactly known for its wise decision-making. So, I guess I still want to know.”

“I have no answers to you,” Aulë says, putting his warm palm on his shoulder. He tenses, and Aulë hurries to continue, thinking that his denial has hurt him. “I’m sorry, I really don’t know what happened to him in the end.”

He feels empty. For some reason he has thought that Aulë, at least, would know. Mairon once belonged to Aulë’s household, that was what Námo told him. Doesn’t Aulë want to know the fate of his former pupil? Has he already let go of the past as he so wisely advises Celebrimbor to do?

Celebrimbor takes a step back, aware of what must look like an unhealthy obsession. Aulë’s face suddenly softens, the look in his eyes not pity, Celebrimbor hopes, but understanding.

“Let’s walk around a little,” Aulë suggests. “We can discuss more as we walk. Would you like to see the forges?”

He is curious, but he shakes his head all the same. He is not yet ready to face all those familiar clangs, heat and smell. “Perhaps another time. Can we just walk around the courtyard?”

“Of course,” Aulë says and shows him around. He proudly introduces Celebrimbor to some very old trees that dominate the open yard. Some elves sit under an ancient yew, chatting. Celebrimbor finds himself missing that kind of happy company, but then the elves recognize him and turn suddenly silent. He is relieved when they have passed the elves. There are several different forges. He can see homely houses for Maiar as well as elves studying under Aulë.

“You were a friend of my Dwarves,” Aulë continues, “and a fine craftsman of Gwaith-i-Mírdain. You always have a place here if you want to come and stay for a while, you know.”

It’s a great honour, to be invited to work by Aulë’s side. But there are matters in his life that need to be settled first. Perhaps he can return here, some day.

The Vala is watching him curiously, but not pressing as Celebrimbor struggles to find a suitable answer to the generous offer. “You mean to go looking for him?” Aulë finally asks.

“Yes,” Celebrimbor whispers. He has almost no energy left. “I have to. I need to know what happened to him. And... why he did what he did.”

“You might not like the answers you’ll find.”

_Not like the answers? To the first question, or to the second?_ “Was he cast into the Void?”

Aulë’s eyes flash with odd light. “No. We didn’t want that. We didn’t want him to reunite with his master. Not even in the Timeless Void.”

“Then where is he?” It’s hard to keep the fire of obsession out of his voice. “He’s immortal, like you all are, he must be somewhere! Námo claimed he doesn’t have him. Or did he lie about it?”

Aulë holds him steady as he starts crying. “Námo doesn’t lie. It’s all right, my little smith. It’s all right to cry. I understand your pain.”

_Do you?_ he wants to ask, but doesn’t dare to. He sniffs and wipes his nose, trying to stop the stupid tears. Aulë gives him a kind smile. The Vala struggles to continue.

“Manwë probably knows. I’m sorry I don’t have better advice, Tyelperinquar, but if you insist on continuing your quest, I suggest you speak with Eönwë, Manwë’s herald. After all, he was Mairon’s friend once.”

_Like I thought I was_ , Celebrimbor can’t help thinking. He thanks Aulë and leaves shortly afterwards, not wanting to spend any more time listening to the haunting sounds from the forges. There is no pity in Aulë’s eyes, though, and for that he is grateful.

* * * * *

Again, Celebrimbor stands in front of the door and hesitates. This time it’s the door of the house that is the closest he can call home these days. His grandmother Nerdanel lives here. It was here Celebrimbor first came after Námo released him, the otherworldly glimmer still surrounding his newly made _hröa_. She invited him in, just like she had done when Celebrimbor’s father had appeared at her door, or any other of her sons who had yet freed from Mandos. One by one, the reembodied Fëanorians have gone their own way, starting a new life in Valinor. At this time, it’s only Celebrimbor who lives with Nerdanel.

He’s not sure if he should tell Nerdanel about his inquiries or not, but there’s no one else to talk to.

The night has fallen, and Varda’s stars give off their beautiful light. Celebrimbor touches the door and waits as the _ithildin_ lines form the star of the house of Fëanor on the wooden door.

“ _Meldo_ ,” he says and enters as the door opens before him.

The secret opening mechanism is the first thing he crafted after he returned to life. There are still elves who hate Fëanorians for what they have done, and after Nerdanel admitted she sometimes had unwanted visitors, Celebrimbor knew what he needed to do to keep them out. Only afterwards he wonders if the real reason behind crafting the lock is to make a safe place for himself.

Nerdanel has made a light supper for the two of them. She waits as he changes his travel clothes and rinses his face. It has been a long trip back home, two whole days. He misses his own bed.

“I heard you visited Aulë’s halls,” Nerdanel mentions while they are eating their bread and soup. She must have heard it through her _palantír_. Those annoying stones are hardly suitable for more than spreading gossip, Celebrimbor decides.

“Are you thinking of going back to work?” she asks, raising her eyebrows. “Isn’t it too soon?”

Celebrimbor shivers, remembering too well how he didn’t even want to step inside the forge.

“No, that was not why I was there. I was asking for some information.”

“Information about what?” Nerdanel asks, a worried look in her eyes. “About who?”

Celebrimbor is sure she knows even before he says the words. “About Annatar.” Unintentional choice of name, he realizes. It seems he is still Annatar to him, even after all what happened between them, even after he died. Nerdanel recognizes the name, of course. Some returned Noldor of Eregion have told her all about it even before Celebrimbor came back.

“I want to know what happened to him in the end. After he lost his Ring and was destroyed,” he explains. “I thought Aulë would know but he didn’t.”

Nerdanel misunderstands. “Inyo dear, you’re safe here in Valinor. The dark Maia wouldn’t dare to hurt you here. And it can’t be long until they find his spirit and lock him away.”

“Haruni, it’s not that,” he forces himself to say. How he wants Nerdanel to understand! And suddenly there’s a new look in her eyes that tells him she may have already guessed the truth.

“We were lovers once,” he continues, lowering his head. “We were lovers for so many years. He was dear to me once. And then... and then...” He can’t continue. He can’t even breathe.

He feels Nerdanel’s strong arms around his shoulders. She gives him a cautious hug, ready to retreat if he shows any signs of discomfort. But it feels oddly good, to be touched.

“It’s hard,” Nerdanel says, “when you love someone so much, and then they start acting in a way you can’t accept any more. It’s like they’ve become a totally different person.”

Slowly, he feels he can breathe again. “You don’t think I’m tainted? Because I loved him?”

“No, I don’t see you tainted by him. Only... he hurt you so much. His love towards you was never genuine, I think.”

“I guess so,” Celebrimbor mutters, staring at the bowl on the table. His soup has already got cold. “But I need to be sure. I want to confront him, make him explain why he did all that.”

A memory from his past appears in his mind’s eye, a memory he doesn’t want to share with Nerdanel. He’s in a dark room somewhere. The only light comes from Annatar, and it’s not a pleasant kind of light. He can’t look away. Annatar asks a question, but he doesn’t know the answer although he should. He only knows what will happen next. Although it’s never just the same. Sometimes it’s his finger, sometimes his chest. Sometimes he can’t breathe, the other time he screams as the metal burns his skin. Only this time something is changed. He can see a glimpse of a new light in Annatar’s eyes as his horrible silver knife comes closer to Celebrimbor’s face and then, with a sudden jerk, cuts through the skin of his cheek. He gurgles as the blood fills his mouth; he tries to get up in vain. Then he realizes that for a tiny moment Annatar has hesitated before acting. At least for a moment, Annatar regretted his deeds. The transitory look in his eyes was proof of that.

“Is everything all right?” Nerdanel asks, her gentle voice pulling him back to the present time. She is not hugging him anymore although Celebrimbor can’t remember her moving away. He knows he must have had one of his flashbacks, but he doesn’t want Nerdanel to start worrying about his mental stability.

“I want to confront him,” he repeats emphatically, ignoring Nerdanel’s question. “Besides, I need to know what happened to him after he fell. He is somewhere there still, that much I know. I can’t help thinking that he is very lonely and very frightened right now.”

Nerdanel sighs audibly at his words. “I was afraid you’d say something like this, Tyelpë. Just remember that he’s a powerful and corrupted Maia, not a common elf. He can take care of himself as well as any Ainu, and he’ll only need you so he can use you again, I’m afraid.”

Those are wise words, but Celebrimbor has already made his decision. “Tomorrow, I will leave for the mansion of Manwë. The only clue I got from Aulë was that Lord Manwë probably knows something. He suggested that I talk to Eönwë, and that’s what I am going to do next.”

Even though Nerdanel smiles, she has sorrowful eyes. “You have fire inside you, too. You remind me of him. _Fëanáro_. I only hope your fire doesn’t burn you.”

“It will not,” he promises. “Not anymore.”

* * * * *

Next morning, Celebrimbor is ready to leave. He is going to Tirion first. Nerdanel has suggested that he finally visits his mother while staying there. He knows he doesn’t have energy or courage for that, but that’s something he doesn’t want to tell Nerdanel. Tirion is a good starting point, however. He will most definitely find some elves there who are going on a pilgrimage and he can travel with them to Taniquetil.

He stands in front of Nerdanel’s door, ready to leave as soon as he has said goodbye to her. She has asked him to wait, but now she’s nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she doesn’t want to come and wish him luck for his quest which she sees only as folly.

But then the door opens and Nerdanel is standing there, a solemn look in her eyes. She holds in her hands a slender parcel wrapped in beige cloth, carefully supporting its weight. It looks too much like a sword to him, and Celebrimbor’s heart aches.

She removes the cloth wrapping and Celebrimbor sees he has guessed right. A beautiful sword glimmers in gentle morning sunlight. He can see the design is ancient, made even before the sun. Still, it’s in good condition, like it was never used.

“I want to give you this sword,” says Nerdanel, handing the masterfully crafted weapon to him. He knows before she tells him that it must be Fëanor’s work. It’s perfect in all ways, so beyond his own skills. Even though he has thought he would never hold a sword again, his mind is changed. Its perfection is too much to resist. He takes it in his right hand.

And suddenly he is back in Ost-in-Edhil, desperately holding back the cruel troops Sauron has sent to destroy his city. He is afraid he may die there; afraid he may die before he learns from where all that wrath originates. It’s can’t be his Annatar, can it? He can smell the burning corpses in the burning city, and still he holds his sword steady, killing the attacking orcs until something hits him and everything goes black.

Back in the present time, he is gripping the sword his grandfather once made. _It’s over. Not now_. He tries to concentrate to Nerdanel’s story as she tells him the history of the sword.

“It is one of Fëanor’s early works as a swordsmith,” she says, “and it made me worried. I hid it from him, for I didn’t want him to take it to King Finwe’s council. Little good did it do, though, he had plenty of other swords.”

“I accept your gift,” Celebrimbor says, “but you must know I don’t want to use it. Not against Mairon. Not against anyone! I have seen too much war.”

She nods. “It’s all right. I only want you to use it for self-defence, if it comes to that. I don’t want to send you on your quest unprepared. You are not a powerless victim anymore, Tyelpë.”

Her words hurt him although she certainly didn’t mean them to be hurtful. But Fëanor’s sword gives him peculiar strength, and he knows Nerdanel is right.

The sword is too big to be put into his backpack. He goes back inside, changes his simple travel clothes into something a little more elegant, and fastens a decorated scabbard to his belt. The hilt of the sword has a Fëanorian star. He covers it by his travel cloak. Now he is ready to leave.

Celebrimbor knows Nerdanel is watching him as he takes the path that goes across the meadow and around the green hill. He doesn’t look back, and when he reaches the other side of the hill, he knows Nerdanel can’t see him anymore.


	2. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eönwë grants Celebrimbor an audience. Celebrimbor meets a new helper on his quest and learns that the Ainur may be plotting something.

Eönwë listens without interruption as Celebrimbor pleads for information. He is everything an Ainu should be, and more. Noble, valiant and emitting holy light. Celebrimbor wonders if once Annatar was like that, too. Probably. He was named the Admirable One, after all. It could have saved him, thinks Celebrimbor grimly, if Annatar had appeared at the gates of Ost-in-Edhil looking as holy as Eönwë looks now. Celebrimbor would never have dared to believe he could become friends, and more, with such a lordly creature.

But unfortunately for him, Annatar was an extraordinary spirit who felt more intriguing than fearsome. Therefore, Celebrimbor now finds himself standing in front of Eönwë, patiently explaining to the herald why he needs to know what happened to his tormentor and why Manwë shouldn’t judge his preoccupation unhealthy.

“I wish you just let Lord Manwë handle this situation as he sees best,” Eönwë says and stretches his wings. Manwë’s herald has given Celebrimbor a private audience, and that is a small victory in itself, but he isn’t too keen on letting Celebrimbor to know what they know. That much Celebrimbor can sense as he eyes Eönwë’s tense shoulders.

They are at Ilmarin, the complex of mansions belonging to Manwë and Varda. Celebrimbor climbed the stony mountain path there in the company of his fellow Noldor pilgrims. Those few who recognized him probably thought it only likely that a Fëanorian should make a proper pilgrimage to Taniquetil to atone for their past deeds; no awkward questions were asked. He didn’t argue as the gatekeeper of Ilmarin ordered him to leave his sword behind as he entered the building. He was not like its previous owner.

The large domed hall is decorated with sky-coloured silks and elegant furniture. Celebrimbor feels very small there, but he doesn’t give up easily. Eönwë is a lordly figure, but he is only formidable to his enemies and Celebrimbor knows he is not counted as such. Therefore, he says one more time: “Please, I can’t find peace of mind until I know the truth.”

Eönwë’s eyes are sad and weary as he finally says: “So be it. I must talk with Lord Manwë about this. Lord Manwë doesn’t have him in custody yet, but he has a clear idea where to search for him. He’ll decide how much you should know, if anything at all.”

He is asked to wait at Ilmarin, but Eönwë encourages him to walk around a little, enjoying the scenery and the company of other pilgrims while waiting. There will be refreshments and drinks to be served in the lower hall, Eönwë continues. Celebrimbor understands that he is dismissed.

* * * * *

Celebrimbor walks idly through the magnificent halls of Ilmarin while Eönwë confers with Manwë. He is tired of waiting for the decision of the Powers and too nervous to sit still. After a while, he decides to leave the pilgrims’ jovial company and walk around some more. The mansion is huge and so it happens that he loses his way. The decorations here remind him of starlight and nights in Beleriand before the moon has risen. He must have wandered to Varda’s realm by mistake. He wants to ask directions back, but there’s no one to be seen. Soft music is played in the distance and in that direction he goes next.

The next hall has a starlight dome that looks almost real. The stars give a dim, comfortable light. Black velvet curtains hang in front of every window. He is pretty sure it must be still daytime outside, but in Varda’s halls, eternal night rules. It’s beautiful. But then the music fades down, and he still doesn’t know how to get back.

“Good work, Tyelpë, you have certainly got yourself lost now,” he mutters to himself, frustrated.

Then he sees something that doesn’t belong in Varda’s halls at all. It’s a peculiar sight. In the hall with the starlight dome, silver-like carvings of Doors of Durin appear on the far wall. It must be a clever illusion, he thinks, but why here of all places? _Is it because of me?_ he wonders. _I made those doors with Narvi, there’s a connection._

He is curious and walks closer in order to study the carvings. All little details are just as they should be. As far as he knows, the real doors should still exist in Middle Earth, but these look like a perfect copy. Or illusion. He can’t feel the mountain stone as he touches the surface, and the _ithildin_ lines feel weird under his finger. It must be an illusion, he thinks, but it amuses him to play so he recites the opening word in the empty hall.

_Mellon._

In an eerie silence, the magnificent doors open. And just like in the bedtime stories _ammë_ used to tell him during his childhood days, they open into a completely different place. He can feel the doors calling him to enter. They don’t feel malicious - although he is not sure if he can trust his own judgement about it. Always more curious than cautious, he only hesitates a moment before going through the doors.

Celebrimbor finds himself in the wilderness. Long, dry grass surrounds him. The terrain is hilly, and he can see the sun rising behind the faraway mountains. It’s a cold morning, and there’s a feeling of winter in the air that reminds him of his days in Middle Earth.

Nearby, several dark stones lie derelict on a hill, covered by grass and surrounded by holly bushes. And, he startles, there’s a silver bearded man sitting on one of the stones as if he was waiting for him.

Celebrimbor finds a good path that leads towards the old man on the hill. At first, he looked like a man of Middle Earth to him, hair turned white with age, but now Celebrimbor isn’t so sure. For one thing, the man is looking straight at him, giving an encouraging smile as Celebrimbor slowly approaches him. Surely, the old man must be connected to this peculiar vision somehow. And the whole thing feels too much like Irmo’s machinations to Celebrimbor.

“What is this place?” he asks as he climbs up the hill. “And who are you?”

“Well met, Celebrimbor,” he answers in perfect Sindarin. “Don’t you know this place where you lived for so long?”

_No. It can’t be._ He looks around and sees the holly bushes full of beautiful red berries, he sees the carved stones of the ancient ruins half hidden under the grass, and wonders. But then he recognizes the familiar shapes of mountain peaks in the distance and he knows the old man is right.

“This is Eregion,” he mutters. “How?”

“This is Eregion as I remember it,” the old man confirms. He stands up and looks around as if to enjoy the scenery further. “In this place, the city of Ost-in-Edhil once existed. I needed to conjure a place where we could meet and I thought this would be suitable.”

Celebrimbor stares at the ruins, all that is left of his once magnificent city. He touches one of the stone blocks, wondering from which building it has come off. It feels cold. _This is the place where I died._

“So long ago,” Celebrimbor whispers mostly to himself, “and still it sometimes feels like it happened yesterday.”

The weird man looks him straight in the eye. His fiery eyes are a bit like Annatar’s, but gentler.

“My lord Irmo helped me build this vision. I have a fresh memory of this place for I have passed these ruins on my journeys in Middle Earth no so long ago. I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Olórin, from Irmo’s house, or perhaps you'd like to call me Mithrandir like the elves of Lindon do. As you may know, we Maiar have many names.”

The names he gives sound familiar to Celebrimbor. In his new life in Valinor, he has interviewed many elves who have sailed from Middle Earth to get information about the fate of Sauron. Many of them mentioned Mithrandir as one of the key characters in the fight against the dark Maia. It makes sense that he also is a Maia. He would have liked to interview Mithrandir himself, but he has been afraid of his judgement. He still feels he can’t hate Annatar, and he has been afraid that Mithrandir loathes him for that.

“You wanted to meet me?” Celebrimbor asks. “Why?” _To warn me about Sauron? To ask me to stop searching him?_ “I don’t need any more of your holy warnings,” he snaps as a wave of frustration washes over him. “I know nobody can understand why I still care about him. I can hardly understand it myself! But I do!”

Then he can see the compassion in Mithrandir’s gentle eyes and knows he’s mistaken about him.

“I’m not here to stop you,” Mithrandir says. “On the contrary, I have been known to tug people on their quest in the right direction, and I think that’s what I’m trying to do here. I came to return something that is yours.”

“You... what?”

Mithrandir takes a ring off his finger and hands it to Celebrimbor without further explanation. He opens his hand to receive the beautiful object. The golden ring rests on his palm, its ruby reflecting the sunrise. Narya, the ring of fire. He knows it. He has made it.

And yet he’s afraid to put it on his finger. He vividly remembers the moment when he took it off the last time and threw it on the floor as if it was burning him.

He can’t help it. His mind takes him back to his bedroom in Ost-in Edhil. Yes, that’s where he was when it happened. It is a lovely morning. He wakes up slowly, wondering if this would be the day when Annatar comes back. His work has suffered without him, he can’t connect with his creativity any more. He is missing him.

As the horror emerges, he is sitting on his bed. A shudder goes through his fëa, making him gasp. There’s an awareness of a powerful will. He can taste the malice of it, he can feel the crushing oppression. And he knows, although he can’t say how, that the evil will belongs to Annatar. _He is not who you think he is._ The ring in his finger is too hot. He panics and quickly takes it away, throws it on the other side of the room. He acts purely on instinct, but at once he knows it was a right thing to do. The horrible crushing feeling subsides, and he is left breathing heavily amongst the soft pillows, miserable and betrayed.

He shakes his head, trying to convince himself that he is not there now. The ring on his palm is challenging him to put it on, but what will be the consequences?

“Come on,” Mithrandir encourages him. “It’s quite safe.”

Hesitantly, he takes the golden ring and studies it for some time before putting it on. No wave of horror hits him. Nothing. He exhales. The ruby ring gives a golden and blood-red glimmer.

“Thank you,” Celebrimbor says after a while. “You know, of the three, this was the ring I thought would always be mine. Until it became too dangerous to keep it.”

“Then it’s good I gave it back to you, Celebrimbor. Well, we must depart now, and you must hurry back. Eönwë is looking for you already, if I am not mistaken.”

“Are they ever going to let me go looking for him?” Celebrimbor sighs, remembering his quest. He can’t take his eyes off his ring.

“I suppose they will,” Mithrandir says. “Have you thought that they might want to use you as bait to trap him?”

Celebrimbor shudders. He hasn’t thought it that way. “And what if they do?” he replies quickly. _I’m so tired of this shit. I just want to know what happened to him. I just want to find him._ He starts to wonder if Mithrandir’s gift really is as genuine as it seems. “Is this thing part of the bait, too?” he can’t resist asking, showing Narya in his hand. The red stone flashes.

“Make of that what you will,” Mithrandir says, and gives a little smile. “But I still think you deserved to get your ring back.”

* * * * *

When Celebrimbor steps through Durin’s doors and back to the real world, there are suddenly voices in his head, and he freezes. But then he recognized them and understands.

_Hello Elrond_ , he speaks silently, certain that they will hear him now. _Lady Galadriel._ He gives a little bow in the domed hall, although there’s no one to be seen. _So, you are the other ringbearers_ , he thinks. _Finally, I learn the truth._ He can feel their warm and welcoming approval. But then the feeling changes. There’s worry and uncertainty now. Answers are demanded, and he doesn’t like it, because it’s too big a bundle to start to open at the moment.

_What are you doing there, Celebrimbor?_

_Why did he give you that ring?_

_What are you going to do now?_

He tries to answer, but finds out he can’t, not without worrying them more, and he doesn’t want that. Therefore, he shuts his mind and pushes his former friends out. He knows instinctively how to do that. He is the ringmaker, after all. Elrond gasps, Galadriel starts to say something, and then he is alone again. For a while, he stands still, gathering his strength, trying to focus. Then he goes looking for Eönwë.

It is one of Manwë’s lesser Maiar in the form of merlin that finds him when he feels completely lost. The little hawk-maia is his guide now. The hawk flies ahead and patiently waits for him every time he lags behind. He has come a long way. They go through halls he hasn’t visited before. It’s been a long day, perhaps even days; he has lost the sense of time. Still, he isn’t tired as he follows the merlin Maia. Finally, Celebrimbor finds himself in the domed audience hall where Eönwë is standing on some kind of dais. Eönwë is not alone. There’s a presence of a Vala in the room, making Celebrimbor shiver. But the dark horned shadow in the uttermost corner is not Manwë.

“So, this is the Noldo?” The Vala’s voice is a low rumble, and then he laughs, but it’s not a malignant voice. He steps forward into the light, and Celebrimbor recognizes Oromë.

“Yes, he is the one,” Eönwë admits, frowning at Celebrimbor. “I see Olórin decided to give you the ring.”

“Well, it belongs to me,” Celebrimbor says quickly, wondering what Oromë and Eönwë had been talking before he entered. The look in Eönwë’s eyes is almost guilty. Celebrimbor bows down before Oromë. The Vala looks wild and very much in contrast to the pristine halls of Manwë. His presence fills Celebrimbor with foreboding. The hunt is about to begin.

“I heard you are Finwë’s great-grandson,” Oromë speaks in a gentle voice. “Don’t be afraid.”

“I am not, lord Oromë.”

Oromë laughs. “I see you are not afraid. Not enough, at least. We have discussed the matter with the Lord of Arda, and as you are most insistent on demanding information, Manwë has decided that you are allowed to know some details of the situation.”

Celebrimbor’s heart leaps. “Thank you.”

Eönwë steps closer to the edge of the dais, opening his wings proudly as he announces what Manwë has decided Celebrimbor should hear.

“South of here, in the deep forests of Oromë, there’s a place where trees and plants wither as they shouldn’t. Odd vines are growing there, and Oromë’s servants have found many carcasses of dead animals. There’s a magical border that surrounds the area, not very strong, but it is there. We have asked the elves not to cross it, because it’s not safe. The Ainur know how to cross it without harm, however. The corruption that ails the woodlands hasn’t existed for long. Indeed, it appeared not long after Sauron was defeated in Middle Earth. Manwë has sent his eagles to scout the area, and they have seen some strange phenomena there. We believe that’s where Sauron has retreated – or what is left of him, at least.”

_What is left of him?_ The words pain Celebrimbor, but he just nods, thankful for the information, however painful.

“But he will be hunted down,” adds Oromë. The light in his eyes is so bright Celebrimbor drops his gaze. “It’s time.” The Vala turns to look at Eönwë. “It’s time.”

“I want to come with you!” Celebrimbor exclaims before he can restrain himself. His own words shock him, but then he knows he really means it. “If there is a hunt, I will come with you.” _I want to see him one more time._

“It’s not safe,” Eönwë says.

“I know.”

Now Eönwë steps down from the dais and approaches Celebrimbor, looking grim and worried. He touches Celebrimbor’s cheek gently, and a comforting wave goes through him like a blessing. He knows Eönwë has noticed his scar, the mark of Sauron’s silver knife, one of those marks of his past that haven’t been faded in his new _hröa_.

Eönwë lowers his hand. His touch is gentler than Annatar’s, but it has the same electrifying feeling as an after-effect, something Celebrimbor realizes he has missed all this time.

“You don’t have to come,” Eönwë continues, a painful look in his bright eyes. “You don’t have to face him again.”

“I think I have to,” he whispers an answer. “Please.”

Something changes in Eönwë’s expression then. For a moment, his look is almost predatory, and Celebrimbor steps away. He remembers Mithrandir’s words about them using Celebrimbor as a bait. Is this it? Is he okay with it?

“All right,” Eönwë says. “Manwë has decided that you can come with us of your own free will. I see this is important to you. Although I don’t approve of it myself,” the Maia adds as an afterthought.

“It’s all set then.” Celebrimbor suddenly feels very weary. _Things are moving. I’m a step closer to learning the truth._

“Good,” Oromë says from the darkest corner of the room. He has been listening their conversation without showing his opinion, but now he looks fiercely happy. “Now we only need to decide on a time and a place, and who else will join us on the hunt of Sauron. He is weak, we’ll catch him in no time.”

* * * * *

Celebrimbor rides towards the sacred grove outside of Tirion, feeling determined. That place is decided to be their meeting point. For Nerdanel’s sake, he wears a breastplate and a helmet from his grandfather’s stock. When he returned home and told her what he was going to do, she didn’t say anything, but then she brought him this attire suitable for war. He doesn’t feel like he is going to war, and he told her so much, but Nerdanel was insistent. Now, with a star-signed sword on his belt and riding a valiant horse, he knows he looks like some kind of Fëanorian warrior from the First Age, but he is beyond caring.

There is not going to be any army, either. Oromë thinks a small team will be best suited for the hunt. Like Eönwë said at the briefing: _This is not the War of Wrath. Lord Manwë wishes Aman stays intact. There’s no need to sink a whole continent because of one stray Maia._

_I guess once was enough._

There will be only four of them. Oromë will be leading the hunt, and Eönwë comes along as Manwë’s herald, and also as Celebrimbor’s personal bodyguard, he assumes. Then there’s Huan. Oromë insisted that they take Huan with them, and although Celebrimbor opposed the idea, knowing how much the hound must frighten Annatar, Oromë was steadfast. They need a small but efficient team, Oromë said, and this is the most efficient he can imagine. Celebrimbor is now certain he is used as a bait, but if this is the way he’ll find the answers he searches, so be it.

Upon arrival, Celebrimbor leaves his horse in a clearing and takes his helmet off. Someone is already in the grove. Another horse, this one chestnut coated, is tied to a tree nearby. He enters the shady grove – and suddenly somebody punches him on the nose, hard.

“Ouch!” he cries and takes a hand to his nose. He is bleeding. He starts to fight back against the attacker, but then he recognizes him and stops.

“Uncle Tyelko!” he shouts furiously and spits some blood from his mouth. “Why for Eru’s sake did you hit me?”

“Because you’re a damned idiot!” Celegorm shouts back, “and someone has to tell you that!”

“Oh, that is it, now?” he snaps. He should have realized earlier that if Huan comes along, Celegorm will also be around. That would have given him time to prepare for the inevitable confrontation with his uncle. The confrontation he has tried to avoid, for the same reason he hasn’t met his father after their reincarnation. They wouldn’t understand his need to once more see Annatar – Sauron - with his own eyes.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he says aloud, wiping his bloody nose on a tissue he luckily had in his pocket. Oh, how his nose hurts! Celegorm tenses and for a moment Celebrimbor is afraid that he is going to attack him again, but then Eönwë intervenes, pushing them apart. Celebrimbor hasn’t even noticed the Maia is also present in the grove. Eönwë has a nauseous look in his blue eyes as he studies the both of them.

“Stop fighting,” Eönwë commands in a steely voice, and slowly the tension in the air lessens.

“He doesn’t know what’s good for him,” Celegorm claims, slowly shaking his head. “If he comes with us, he is not going to fight Sauron. The dark Maia has become an obsession with him, and not in a good way!” His uncle turns to face him, grimacing. “He tortured you. He already killed you once! Can you even imagine what he did to your uncle Maedhros? And still I hear people say you are talking about him like... like you still loved him!”

“It’s not like that,” Celebrimbor says in a low voice, but he’s not sure what it is, then. “I can make my own decisions, uncle. They may not be the wisest, but they are mine.”

One by one, the others appear in the grove. Oromë in his mighty glory, and the giant hound Huan who comes happily to greet Celebrimbor, but still somehow unnerves him. Celebrimbor has cleaned his face in a nearby spring. He is careful to keep his distance from Celegorm as they check their things and prepare for leaving. Finally, they are ready to go. Oromë takes the lead, after him Celegorm rides on his chestnut horse. Celebrimbor rides next, and behind him Eönwë who doesn’t need a horse to keep up with them. Huan is somewhere around, constantly checking the surroundings as they travel across the beautiful pastures of Yavanna.

Celebrimbor doesn’t really want to think what awaits them in the end of their journey. The only thing he knows for sure is that he has to be there when Annatar is captured. After all, their fates have long since been intertwined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm really happy for all the kudos and comments you have left. I guess this is the midpoint of the story! Celebrimbor's quest will continue, and in the next chapter Sauron will finally appear.


	3. Capture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor is there when Sauron is captured. What will he do?

A raven is staring at Celebrimbor. He stares back.

In that afternoon, they have crossed the magical border, and a flock of ravens arrives soon after. The coal-black birds flow over them several times, making strange noises, before all but one vanish behind the treetops. The one who stays is a fearless creature. It has followed them all day. Now, it sits patiently on a high stone pillar beside their camp, and even though Eönwë tries to drive it away, it always returns to the same pillar.

“Carrion-eater,” Eönwë mutters and gives the raven a disapproving glance. The bird clicks its beak as an answer, and they try their best to ignore it.

However, Celebrimbor finds it a very difficult thing to do. Over and over again he turns to watch the solitary black bird. Nobody has said it aloud yet, but crows and ravens are known to have served Sauron in Middle-earth. Why not in Aman, too?

“You don’t scare me,” he tells to the raven, and it tilts its head as if wanting to hear more.

He is sitting on a peculiar rock formation surrounded by ancient oaks and other trees he doesn’t know by name. At dusk, they decided to set up camp there, on a higher ground, sheltered by rocks. There’s a spring nearby. The water oozing through the crack in stone tastes pure and rich in minerals. Some of the rocks look like carved pillars of the Noldor, but when Celebrimbor studies them further in the vanishing light, he thinks they must be naturally formed. No elf has ever lived in this area, Oromë tells them.

And somewhere in this wilderness, Sauron is hiding.

Celebrimbor has started to think of him as Sauron now. It makes the thought of confronting him easier. He must freeze his heart.

To tell the truth, he had waited for an ambush at the magical border. Or at least some kind of hindrance on their journey. But there was almost nothing. The only thing he felt was a light tingling feeling on his skin as he stepped over the invisible line. According to Eönwë, that was the border Sauron had set there. Oromë and Huan explored the area for a long time. Oromë looked serious, but if he discovered anything of any importance, he didn’t share the knowledge with the elves.

Celebrimbor shares a tent with Celegorm. It felt awkward, first, but after a couple of nights, they have become accustomed to the arrangement. Sleep doesn’t come easily to Celebrimbor, but his uncle’s steady breath helps him relax on sleepless nights. The Ainur don’t seem to need any sleep, and they guard the camp while the elves are resting. Huan is always somewhere around.

They have lit the campfire every night on their journey, but tonight they hesitate. Crossing the magical border has made everyone edgy. The pros and cons of staying in the dark are discussed.

In the end, Celebrimbor needs to say it aloud: “He already knows we are here, doesn’t he? That raven, it’s his messenger. I think it’s useless to hide now that we are here. I vote for the comfort of the campfire.”

Eönwë looks relieved. He doesn’t like the dark forest. He insists they have their weapons close at hand, though. Celegorm starts making a campfire and preparations for dinner. Later, they’ll get some stew. It would be a nice evening in other circumstances.

Celebrimbor’s suit of armour reflects the flames as he sits down by the fire. Fëanor’s sword leans against one of the strange pillars beside him.

When the dinner is ready, they all gather around the fire, even Huan. Eönwë doesn’t want Celegorm’s stew, but Oromë seems to like it. Huan gets some treats. Celebrimbor is too nervous to feel hungry, but he knows it’s better to eat something now. Slowly, he spoons the stew in his bowl and starts to munch it.

“What are you going to do when you find him?” Celebrimbor asks Eönwë. He has seen the weapons Oromë and Celegorm are carrying; nasty crossbows, swords and knives. Huan looks alert and ready to attack. Even Eönwë himself carries a glorious sword and, unlike Celebrimbor, the Maia doesn’t seem cautious about using it. He remembers how fierce Eönwë was in the War of Wrath and shivers.

“We will capture him and take him to Máhanaxar to receive the judgement of Manwë,” Eönwë says in a steel cold voice. “It’s high time.”

“Are you going to hurt him?”

“Not more than we have to in order to bind him.” Eönwë turns to look at him. “Are you pitying him, now?”

“He was my friend once,” Celebrimbor mutters, ashamed to admit that the old connection between them has perhaps not all gone even now.

His words disturb Celegorm who slams his empty bowl on the ground. “Fuck! You idiot! He was never a friend to you! I’m tired of that shit, Tyelpë! He only wanted your downfall, because of who you are. He is the enemy! I don’t know what evil tricks Sauron has done to you back then so that you, after all you’ve been through, still believe in his sincerity!”

“I thought him as a friend, once,” Celebrimbor says stubbornly, and he would have said more, but Oromë suddenly raises his hand.

“Be quiet,” the Vala hushes them with a whispered command. Huan starts growling in a low voice.

They all get up, already reaching for their weapons, although unsure what Oromë has heard or felt. The forest surrounding their camp is dark outside the light of the campfire.

Celebrimbor holds his grandfather’s sword in his both hands. If Sauron attacks, he is going to strike, he promises himself. The thought makes him sick. It’s Ost-in-Edhil all over again.

Most of the elves and men fighting with him against Sauron’s forces lie around him. Dead. He knows he is going to join them soon. Mordor’s troops are everywhere. The city of Ost-in-Edhil has fallen, he knows, and still he continues to fight on the steps of the Mírdain. He is so tired. He can smell the death. When something hits him in the head and he passes out, he is almost relieved that it is finally over now.

Only it isn’t. Annatar’s eyes are the first thing he sees when he wakes up. So beautiful, even now when the raw power inside them is not hidden any more. Especially now. Seeing their unholy light, Celebrimbor realizes he’s not dead yet. It is not over, it’s only a beginning of something new.

“Put out the campfire!” Oromë’s strict command forces Celebrimbor back to reality. He doesn’t want to lose their only source of light, but Oromë and Celegorm have already started to drown the fire with water from the nearby spring pool. Soon there is only smoke and ashes.

“What is it?” Celebrimbor whispers. “Did you hear something?” He tries to listen, but the only thing he hears is Huan’s growling.

“I felt something before,” Oromë says grimly. “It’s best that we stay alert.”

Celegorm stands beside him, a crossbow in his hand. Celebrimbor wonders if this new Sauron even has a body they can shoot at. How are they going to capture him?

On his other side, Eönwë studies the darkness, a sword in his hand. His face glimmers, his attention very concentrated.

They watch the darkness for a long time. Once they hear some kind of cry, like that of a fox. It is never repeated. Perhaps it was just some nocturnal animal.

“Nothing there,” whispers Eönwë at last, and Celebrimbor lets himself relax a little.

No one sleeps that night. Oromë and Eönwë are on constant guard for any threat, but although they suggest that he could go to the tent and have some rest, Celebrimbor doesn’t want to. He is sitting on one of the rocks near them, feeling a bit useless. Celegorm has gone walking in the surroundings accompanied by Huan.

Suddenly, Celebrimbor becomes aware of a distant sound of music. It may have continued for some time. The melody is so faint he hardly hears it at all. But when he starts to listen, the music becomes slightly stronger, and he wonders why he didn’t hear it as clearly before.

There is something otherworldly about the music, and at first, he thinks it must come from Eönwë. But Eönwë seems unaware of it, although it’s rather loud in Celebrimbor’s head now. He wonders if he actually is the only one who hears it.

If it can be called music. It’s more like a background buzz that goes alternately higher and lower. There’s a fast rhythm in it, like a nervous heart beating. It gradually becomes more intense, and still he can’t be sure if it’s only in his head. Without noticing he starts tapping his foot to the rhythm.

“What are you doing?” Eönwë whispers a sharp question and puts his hand on Celebrimbor’s shoulder, stopping him.

Celebrimbor realizes that he has somehow stood up and started to walk away from others. Something calls him in the darkness, he thinks, but now that he listens carefully, he can’t hear a thing. Wasn’t there a distant rhythm earlier? A strange melody of some kind? The memory of it is fast fading. It’s quite weird, really.

“He is affected by Sauron’s magic!” Eönwë shouts at Oromë who quickly comes to check the situation.

“I wasn’t!” claims Celebrimbor, although he is really not sure. He just wanted to check the source of that sound, whatever it was. It is difficult to remember how it was like.

“You were hypnotized by the sound of his spell,” Eönwë says sternly. “I recognized it. Almost too late,” he admits.

“Great,” Oromë says. “Just great. Tyelperinquar, you have to concentrate more. We don’t want him to get in contact with your _fëa_.”

It’s a nasty thing, the way Oromë says it. Once he was almost sure that he shared a _fëa_ -bond with Annatar. How it sometimes felt like they almost could read each other’s thoughts, and understood each other’s ideas from minimal hints. Yes, he is sure there was a bond once. He had thought their bond was cut a long time ago. It hurt so much, surely Sauron’s knife must have cut their bond.

But was it ever wholly cut, really?

“I will watch over him,” Eönwë promises and guides Celebrimbor back where he has been sitting a while ago. “I will see no harm comes to him.”

The music, if there was such a thing, has vanished. He already misses the otherworldly feeling it raised inside him, although he doesn’t dare to admit it to the Ainur.

Then the forest around them catches fire.

Celebrimbor jumps to his feet. The blaze is unnaturally intense and strong, a ring of fire surrounding their retreat. Sauron has announced his arrival.

Celegorm and Huan pull back from the fiery border Sauron has drawn around them. Questions are shouted. Huan seems eager to attack, but Oromë raises his hand, gesturing that they should wait. They watch the blaze in silence, the fire cracking is the only sound they hear. Celebrimbor misses the fëa-music and its mesmerizing rhythm.

A black column of smoke appears in front of them. It rises from behind the wall of fire, and stands tall and mighty. The darkness glitters like millions of diamonds. Celebrimbor squeezes his fists so that he wouldn’t cry out because it’s such a fascinating sight. He feels he is privileged to see something that intimate. The _ëala_ of Annatar.

A deep sound of Oromë’s horn fills the silence, and not even Eönwë can resist it call. Celegorm and Huan rush down to attack the dark column before it has a chance to flee. They are led by Oromë and Eönwë, clothed in power and weapons in hand. Suddenly, the hunt is on.

Nobody seems to notice that Celebrimbor doesn’t follow them into the fiery battlefield. The call of the horn has been powerful, but even more potent command is holding him back. This time, however, he is sure it’s not what Eönwë fears. He is not hypnotized. He knows he has a choice: he can go with the others or stay. And he decides to stay.

From the corner of his eye, Celebrimbor glimpses sudden movement. He turns quickly to face that way, his heart beating fast. He can hardly distinguish the source of it in the darkness. A small dark shape is sitting on a pillar, black against the blaze of the forest below. It’s the raven, and it opens its beak and talks.

_Why are you here?_

He can hear the words inside his head, unsure if anything was actually said aloud. Celegorm always boasts about his talent for understanding the animal talk, but Celebrimbor knows he doesn’t share that ability with his uncle. He knows it can’t be a normal bird. It’s something extraordinary instead.

“Is that you, Annatar?” he whispers, already forgetting the promise he gave himself that he’d only think him as Sauron from now on.

_Yes. Don’t have much time. Difficult to talk. Why are you here?_

“Oh,” Celebrimbor says. How fast his heart is beating. But he isn’t afraid. “I wanted to know... what happened to you. Are you a bird now?”

_This is not my fana. I’m just occupying this bird. I needed to talk to you. It’s so hard, the words don’t come so easily. I don’t have much time. They will notice soon I’m not there and I must be gone then. Are you seeking revenge?_

The words echo in Celebrimbor’s head. He senses the urgency behind them, and something else, too. Fear? Helplessness?

“No, not revenge!” he whispers, afraid that the others hear him talking. “I just want to know the answer. Why did you hurt me? We were friends.” The last words he barely dares to say aloud.

_Oh, that._

Then there’s only a silence, and he thinks the spirit of Annatar must have left the raven still sitting on a stone pillar, leaving his question unanswered again. He hears Oromë calling his name, but he is too dazed to concentrate on what else the Vala is saying. They must have noticed that he is lagging behind. Soon, they’ll come to check if everything’s all right, and he must decide what to say.

Then, the raven talks to him again.

_They’ll capture me. They will force me to take a body. It will be deformed. I need my own fana back. Tell them that you are afraid of the monster I have become. Oromë can change me back. Ask him to do it!_

So many instructions filling his head. And yet no answers. He is definitely talking with Annatar. But he can sense his distress, it is breaking his heart.

“I don’t know, Annatar,” he whispers. The others are coming back, there’s no time to think.

_And when I give you a sign, you’ll free me!_

The last words hit him like a hammer. The black bird opens its wings and flies into the darkness. Annatar’s gone. But not far, Celebrimbor knows. He still doesn’t know what to do, and that’s a frightening thought because it means he is still pondering all the choices.

Celegorm reaches him first, looking annoyed. “Why did you stay here?”

“I was suddenly afraid of him,” he lies. “I couldn’t move.”

“I knew this is not a place for him,” Celegorm announces to Oromë. The piercing eyes of the Ainur study Celebrimbor a long time, and he fears they will see the truth behind his words.

“I’m fine,” he says, turning his gaze back to the eerie fire that still surrounds them. It doesn’t spread like a normal forest fire. This is a place of magic, Celebrimbor thinks. Everything is distorted, one way or other. “Where is he now?”

“We lost him,” says Oromë in a feral voice. “And then we thought it would be best to check with you. Did you see him?”

“I saw a dark shadow that glimmered,” admits Celebrimbor. He knows he should say more, and still he doesn’t. He is telling half-truths to a Vala! A feeling of shame fills him, and he turns his face away so that his eyes wouldn’t reveal his secret.

“What is it?” Oromë starts asking, but Celebrimbor doesn’t get a chance to tell him.

The shadow reappears, intensifying the flames that surround it. The flames are forming a hideous shape, like that of a Balrog. Now Celebrimbor doesn’t need to lie about being afraid. How can that creature be his Annatar?

That isn’t Annatar, he finally understands, because Annatar was a fake. The thought is like cold water over him. This is the real thing. Not Annatar.

And he knows he will never use that false name again.

“Tyelpë, move!” His uncle’s voice jolts him out of his thoughts. The fiery filaments are approaching them from the creature’s body. Celegorm drags him away from the area that is soon becoming a battlefield. They go hiding behind the rocks. Celegorm stays with him and for once Celebrimbor is happy that his uncle is there.

“What a monster,” Celegorm says to him. “Looks like he has become a Balrog or something.”

Celebrimbor remembers Balrogs from the First Age, and shudders. “Should we go help them?”

“No, Oromë and Huan manage it, and there’s Eönwë, too. Oromë asked me to guard you, just in case.”

_Just in case of what?_ He still has Fëanor’s sword in hand, but unlike Fëanor, he is not ready to face a Balrog-like creature on his own. He is relieved the others don’t expect him to fight, but he really needs to see what is happening out there. So he climbs over the rocks until he finds a suitable lookout point.

The fire has died, only a black shadow remains now. Huan holds the writhing shadow against the earth, and Oromë’s mighty form bends over it. Eönwë is holding his sword in a regal manner, ready to attack. Celebrimbor can sense the concentrated power of the Ainur as they force Sauron to take a body again.

And just as he warned him, it’s not a pleasant sight.

* * * * *

They let Celebrimbor close to Sauron only much later. Just before dawn, they bring him to the camp in chains and gagged with a piece of cloth. He is half sitting, half lying on the ground, leaning against the rocks. Even then Celebrimbor isn’t allowed to approach him. Eönwë and Oromë stay near their prisoner, discussing in low voices and perhaps waiting for some reaction from Sauron, but he remains passive. Celebrimbor studies them from afar. He can’t see Sauron’s face from where he is standing, a deliberate choice on Eönwë’s part, most probably.

Sauron looks like someone who should be dead. His skin looks charred, his once beautiful hair now mostly gone, only a clump of hair here and there remains. There’s a sudden feeling of repulsion, but Celebrimbor pushes it firmly away. A shadow of pain surrounds the unmoving figure.

Finally, Eönwë addresses Celebrimbor: “You can come now, if you want.”

Of course he wants to, that’s the whole point of him being there in the first place. 

“I’ll be there,” he says and takes a narrow path that goes between the rocks. He is still wearing his breastplate and helmet, and Narya in the middle finger of his right hand. His grandfather’s sword on his belt feels heavy.

“He can’t hurt you now,” promises Eönwë as he comes closer to their prisoner. “His powers are constrained by the chains of the Valar. And they are quite unbreakable.”

It feels so bad to see the brilliant Maia in such a horrible shape. His raiment is scalded, damaged beyond repair, it seems. He looks like a burnt corpse. Moreover, there’s still a fire burning inside him. His eyes are fiery and full of pain, Celebrimbor realizes when their eyes meet for a moment. Then, Sauron turns his face away as if ashamed.

Celebrimbor suddenly remembers the words of the raven.

“He looks so ugly,” Celebrimbor says to Eönwë and Oromë, and he doesn’t have to feign his distaste. “He is frightening me! Can you not change him back?” His hands are shaking; not with fear, but with the realization that by acting in Sauron’s defence he has now taken sides.

There is pity in Eönwë’s eyes as he says: “You don’t have to be near him. We will take him to Manwë, and he will be judged accordingly. We’ll make sure you won’t see him ever again, Tyelperinquar.”

That isn’t the answer he wanted. From the corner of his eye he can see Sauron’s intense eyes now staring at him, waiting for his next words. Celebrimbor starts to cry, though perhaps not for the reason Eönwë thinks.

“I don’t bear to be near him while he looks such a hideous creature!” he exclaims between his sobs. “I can’t stand it anymore! All the bad memories come back to me! Please, oh please mighty Oromë, can you change him back to what he was? I beg you!”

Eönwë and Oromë exchange glances. They seem to be conversing silently. Celebrimbor is holding his breath now, knowing all too well that he is doing just what the raven has asked him to do. Will it be a right thing to do?

“All right,” Oromë says at last. “It’s not the will of the Valar to see you suffer, Tyelperinquar.”

The air around them feels full of power for a moment. The sudden feeling is gone almost before Celebrimbor notices it. Sauron’s monstrous form hasn’t changed, though.

“Don’t you want to change back, Sauron?” Oromë asks, spitting the nasty name from the corner of his mouth. “It’s not a trap. You can do it, as long as you don’t turn into a dragon or something. The chains will hurt you only if you try something stupid like that.”

Sauron moves a little, as if testing the chains. Then he closes his fiery eyes and changes back.

Celebrimbor knows, of course, about the Ainur and their shape-shifting skills, but never before he has witnessed a shape-shifter in action.

No, that’s not true. He has witnessed it once before, only he has forgotten about it until now.

Now, suddenly, the bad memories come back in a rush. Annatar, no, Sauron, studying him with those too intense eyes. Celebrimbor is hanging from the ceiling, tight ropes around his wrists, his feet hardly touching the floor in that small room where he has been kept for so many days already. At first, when Annatar enters, it feels a relief. Surely, he is going to make an end of this madness! But then he learns it’s Annatar who is the originator of the madness, although he still almost can’t believe it.

Until Annatar raises his delicate hand, and while he is staring at it disbelievingly, the hand changes into a horrible claw. Annatar, no, Sauron, laughs, and the nightmarish claw lashes out, tearing his skin under the ribs, again and again, until he thrashes about and begs for mercy that doesn’t come.

Celebrimbor opens his eyes and meets the eyes of his former torturer. He is beautiful again, but unlike Annatar, there’s something wild in him that he can’t or doesn’t want to hide anymore. His hair has the colour of a flame, and his skin looks like it’s covered with gold dust. His eyes are locked on Celebrimbor, his expression difficult to read. The gag on his mouth looks even more menacing against those perfect lips. Celebrimbor stares out at him and feels triumphant as Sauron finally lowers his gaze.

“Are you satisfied now?” Eönwë asks him. There’s a genuine concern in the Maia’s voice. “Is this enough for you?”

It isn’t enough, but then, what is? Sauron is staring intently Celebrimbor’s hand bearing the red ring, Narya. _Yes, finally you are allowed to see it, friend._ A wry smile appears on Celebrimbor’s face. He feels light-headed and oddly triumphant.

Sauron’s hands are not claws today, they are long and slender and beautiful. They are making tiny movements that seem involuntary at first. His hands are manacled before him, that must be uncomfortable.

Celebrimbor’s heart misses a beat when he understands the meaning of those finger movements. Long ago they had invented their secret sign language for their private entertainment. It had turned out to be useful during those long and sometimes boring guild meetings. They both shared the passion of inventing new languages, and developing the sign language soon became their secret hobby. It was so subtle, no one else in Gwaith-i-Mírdain never guessed what they were doing.

_Help_ , Sauron signs. _Mouth free. Help._ Again and again, the same message.

Celebrimbor turns away. “I’m tired,” he says to kind Eönwë, giving a weak smile. “It’s been a long day, and night. Can I rest for some hours before we have to leave?”

“Sure, take a refreshing nap. Celegorm has already gone to your tent, I suppose. We’ll leave when you are ready. I’ll be on guard; you don’t have to worry.”

“Thank you,” he says to Eönwë. Back at the tent, Celegorm is snoring, Huan half asleep on his feet. Celebrimbor tries to sleep, but soon learns he is too alert for that. Thoughts are criss-crossing his mind. Thoughts about what he should do, or shouldn’t. A picture of Sauron’s pleading eyes. The secret sign language of theirs. Their shared secret, one of the many.

Finally, Celebrimbor feels he has rested enough, if that ambiguous yearning can be called rest. He leaves his helmet and breastplate in the tent, but takes his sword with him when he returns to the prisoner.

As soon as Sauron notices him, he starts subtly signing again.

Eönwë is standing vigilant beside the crouched prisoner. Oromë is further away, studying the horses. Celebrimbor decides to act. Slowly, he closes the distance between himself and Sauron. Eönwë eyes him curiously, but he has no idea of Celebrimbor’s intentions before it is too late.

As fast as he is able to, Celebrimbor unfastens the cloth gag that fills Sauron’s mouth. The damp cloth drops on the ground from his hand. Eönwë starts to draw his sword. Time stands still.

And Sauron starts to sing.


	4. Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor helps Mairon flee from the camp and they have an important discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time! It turned out that this chapter wasn't going to be an easy one to write, but in the end Mairon and Celebrimbor became cooperative, and the story can continue.

Celebrimbor has freed a monster. Sauron’s song fills their ears, it’s music unlike anything he has heard before. If it’s even music. He thinks it sounds more like a distant volcano erupting, but there is a recurrent rhythm in it, and there might be a melody, as well, only he feels too drowsy to listen.

Eönwë collapses on the ground beside Sauron. Oromë manages to take a few faltering steps towards them before he yawns and almost instantly falls asleep, falling down on his knees. Celebrimbor stares at the fallen Vala, confused. It’s strange, he thinks, that he seems to be more resistant to Sauron’s sleep-provoking spell than even mighty Oromë.

Sauron is signing him something with his hands while he continues to emit that eerie thing that is no music.

 _Oh, of course_. He still needs him, that’s why he isn’t fallen asleep like the others. Sauron needs Celebrimbor to free his chains.

“I won’t do that,” he announces sternly although his heart is beating too fast. “Those chains are there for a reason. I want to talk to you, that’s all.”

Celebrimbor is sure that the next moment he is going to be attacked by the sleeping spell, but instead the eerie Song ends abruptly. Oromë doesn’t stir, neither does Eönwë. The spell is still working. Celebrimbor is pretty sure that Celegorm and Huan are also overtaken by this magical sleep inside their tent.

“Eönwë must have the key.” Sauron speaks in such a normal voice that for a fleeting moment Celebrimbor’s mind goes back to happier times in Ost-in-Edhil. He clenches his fists forcibly to bring himself back to the present.

“No. I won’t open the chains.” When Sauron still starts to move closer to Eönwë, Celebrimbor finds himself pulling his sword from its sheath. He goes standing between Sauron and Eönwë, pointing his sword at Sauron. “We need to discuss. But the chains will stay. I decide.”

Sauron seems to ponder on his choices. “All right,” he finally says. “But we need to get away from here. I don’t want to be here when Oromë wakes up. Or Huan. You don’t, either.”

Sauron rises and starts to walk away from the camp. His chains on his ankles and wrists make him slow and clumsy, and it seems to bother him, but thankfully he doesn’t demand the chains to be removed any more.

Only when he has almost vanished behind the trees he turns to look back. “Don’t you want to come with me, Celebrimbor?”

He gives a sigh and follows, the sword still in his hand. He is afraid that he’ll soon hear the loud bark of Huan behind them, but everything is silent. The woods are even devoid of birdsong.

* * * * *

“Where are we heading, Sauron?” Celebrimbor can’t help asking.

He patiently follows the Maia as he takes yet another path that goes uphill, as if he had some idea of their destination which, Celebrimbor suspects, he has not. Unless it’s _away from Huan_. Once or twice the Maia has stumbled in his chains on the uneven path, and once Celebrimbor took him by the arm and helped him restore his balance. He had touched him without thinking, but he wishes he had not. The sparks of his essence felt all too familiar to him.

“Please call me Mairon,” is the only answer he gets.

“Oh, it’s Mairon now, is it?”

“It’s my real name.”

Celebrimbor wants to change the subject. “I think we are far enough from the camp by now. I’m tired of climbing uphill, and you don’t seem to enjoy this either. Why don’t we sit down somewhere and have a little talk?”

Sauron – Mairon – stops and seems to listen to something. “They haven’t woken up yet. We still have some time. Well, Celebrimbor, where do you want to have this little talk of yours?”

Celebrimbor looks around and sees a grassy area a little more uphill. It looks comfortable enough. When they reach the spot, he notices the panoramic view of the valley below. It would be quite a fall if he slipped. Or if someone pushed him over the edge.

“I guess this place will do,” he decides at last. “Let’s sit down, shall we?”

He notices a lone eagle soaring high above them, watchful. The sight lightens his spirits, and he can again look at Mairon without fear.

“Well,” he says, “Shall we begin?”

* * * * *

“It was a terrible loss.”

Mairon has listened to his story patiently, never once interrupting him as he spoke about it. Only after Celebrimbor clearly has nothing more to say, Mairon utters those words, not really an apology, but still more than Celebrimbor has expected to hear from his mouth. He realizes he has never before talked to anyone about how miserable he had felt when he understood who Annatar really was. It was a betrayal of trust, making him feel dirty and used. It was the worst thing although what followed was bad, too.

“That’s what it was,” Celebrimbor agrees with him as if they were having one of their philosophical discussions that used to last all night. “A terrible loss. I lost you. Or the person I thought you were.”

“Annatar was a fake. Not worth mulling over.”

Mairon turns his eyes to him, his cruel words still hanging in the air. There’s an odd light in his eyes that doesn’t feel familiar. Those are not the eyes of Annatar.

“A fake, you say,” Celebrimbor says. The tightness of his throat makes it hard to speak. “Was nothing of it real? Nothing what we made together? What we created?”

“Come closer.” Mairon says the words like a command, and something flashes in his eyes. Celebrimbor obeys after some hesitation, silently wondering whether it is safe or not. He has sheathed his sword while they were climbing and it would feel a gesture of lack of trust to take it in his hand now. And he knows from past experience that a lone sword is useless against Sauron’s iron will, if it should come to that.

“Can you show it to me?”

Celebrimbor feels his heartbeat quicken for he knows very well what Mairon is asking. He could still say no, he could retreat. He could jump off the cliff, and perhaps he would be saved by one of Manwë’s eagles before he hits the stones below. But there’s another part of him that takes pride in his work, eager to show off because he knows that the one who would most appreciate his masterwork is sitting cross-legged in the grass in front of him. So he extends his arm and shows Narya, the ring of fire, to him.

The other ringbearers must have sensed something extraordinary happening, for he suddenly feels them shouting at him in horror before he manages to shut again his consciousness from their prying minds. After that is done, he concentrates only on Mairon who is studying Narya with hungry eyes, his long fingers twitching nervously. The chains connecting his manacled wrists quiver slightly, and suddenly Celebrimbor is afraid that they will break. But then Mairon raises his golden eyes and gives him a melancholic smile.

“Impressive, Celebrimbor. This is not fake; can you not see it? So much of what we created was destroyed, but this remains, the culmination of our work. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Our work?” he can’t help exclaiming. “I made it alone!”

“Our work,” Mairon confirms, looking at him with a smug satisfaction. “We learned the craft together.”

Celebrimbor is suddenly aching for those days when everything was simple and the future was full of promise.

“May I touch it?”

He quickly pulls back his hand, angry with the Maia all of a sudden, angry about his own feelings that make him still yearn for their unholy union despite everything.

“No!” he snaps. “You may not. You don’t deserve it, after all what you did! You attacked my city, you destroyed everything! You... killed me.”

There is a blinding flash of white light, like a lightning strike. Dark after-images are still dancing in Celebrimbor’s eyes as he tries to make sense of what has happened. It looks like he has finally managed to provoke some kind of reaction from Mairon. For a moment, it seems that Mairon’s beautifully built _fana_ is about to collapse. The contours of his body are pulsing with an uncanny energy. Mairon’s expression is hard to read, but he doesn’t look malicious. Now, more than ever, his true nature shows through; he is certainly one of the Ainur, not one of the incarnates.

Finally, Mairon manages to get a grip on himself, and the odd pulsing around him vanishes. Celebrimbor finds himself standing on the other side of the grassy area. How he has got there, he has no idea. His hands are still shaking from his previous burst of anger, and from the odd flash that gave him a fright.

“I’m sorry that I hurt you,” Mairon breaks the silence. “You didn’t deserve any of it.”

“Oh,” Celebrimbor manages to say. The expression on the Maia’s face looks apologetic, but he knows him too well now to trust him lightly. “Why is that? And don’t say that it was all my fault. Don’t say that if I had told you what you wanted to hear nothing like that would have happened. Because that’s bullshit, and I think you are clever enough to recognize it as such. It was you who was responsible of it. It was you who could have stopped – but you didn’t.”

Mairon’s eyes never leave Celebrimbor’s as they speak. The uncanny light in them intensifies. It’s different from the subdued light of Annatar’s, but it doesn’t resemble the violent flame of Sauron’s eyes either. He has stared into those eyes already more than is healthy, he reminds himself. _Remember Melian’s enchantment over Thingol._ But he can’t drop his gaze so perhaps he is already beyond saving.

“You were dear to me, but I stopped treating you like a friend, and started to consider you only a hindrance to my plans. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Oh,” Celebrimbor says again. He can’t find anything else to say. _I wish you would’ve thought about it sooner?_ Useless to say that now. _I was dear to you? How could you still do that to me?_

He is distracted by his gloomy thoughts, but then Mairon moves a little closer, startling him a bit.

“Do you want to know why I did it?”

The question feels honest, and reluctantly Celebrimbor nods. He expects a lengthy explanation, but Mairon stays silent. He seems to concentrate very hard on doing something with his chained hands, but it looks like he isn’t happy with the result.

“There’s something wrong with me,” the Maia finally confesses, frowning. “I feel like I’m lacking something. It might be these cursed chains, or...” 

Almost against his will, Celebrimbor’s curiosity is aroused as he watches Mairon’s frustrated attempts to do whatever he tries to do.

“Perhaps you could just explain it to me?”

“No, I want to show you. But there’s something wrong with my powers, I don’t seem to be able to share this memory of mine with you.”

It surprises Celebrimbor how straightforwardly Mairon speaks about his failure. He wouldn’t have thought that the Maia he knew would voluntarily share the knowledge of his weakness with anyone. Annatar wouldn’t have said anything like that. Then he remembers what happened back in the campsite.

“You didn’t seem to have any problems singing a Vala to sleep a moment ago,” he can’t resist commenting. “I can’t see there’s anything wrong with your powers.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice in singing lullabies to my Master,” Mairon says proudly. “He was constantly in pain from the wounds he had received. Sleep was often the only thing that eased his suffering, but too often he found it impossible to achieve without my help.”

Celebrimbor finds Mairon’s words rather disquieting. “So you know how to ease pain and suffering if you want to. You just weren’t merciful to me, then.”

“I wasn’t. And I know there’s no excuse for what I did to you, but I want you to know why I believed it was necessary back then. If only... wait, I know now!” He looks slightly mischievous as he continues: “I suppose you won’t lend me your ring for a moment?”

What an impudent question, thinks Celebrimbor, but he is too curious to see where their discussion is heading to really get angry with Mairon. “That’s out of the question.”

“I thought so. Hmm, could you perhaps touch me with your hand? I know this sounds strange, but it really might help me.”

 _He has changed_ , Celebrimbor wonders again. _Annatar never asked for help._ Mairon’s cross-legged figure doesn’t feel threatening to him now, but he hesitates before putting his ringed hand gently on his shoulder. The light touch triggers a familiar tingling sensation in his palm that brings back memories, not all of them good. He tries to remember that this time it’s his own hand touching the Maia and not vice versa.

“Ah, Tyelpë,” mutters Mairon and closes his unnerving eyes. He is frowning now, concentrating in whatever it is he tries to do. Celebrimbor feels the warmth of his body against his palm. The ruby of the ring of fire flashes like a flame, and for a moment Celebrimbor fears that he’s been a fool and this is just some ruse to corrupt his ring after all. But there’s no feeling of corruption and he decides that the ring is just sensing its own element in Mairon and reacting to it. Yes, that must be it.

Suddenly, Mairon raises his chained hands in front of him, palms up. It’s a reverent gesture, like he was praying. A bluish flame appears on his palms, and Mairon looks pleased with himself. Celebrimbor stares at the magical flame, wondering if he should be afraid of it.

“Wonderful,” Mairon says. “Your ring indeed revitalizes me! Quickly, bring your hand to touch the fire. I can’t maintain it a long time, I think.”

“But...”

“Do it!” Mairon says in his sharp, commanding voice. He seems to notice his mistake as Celebrimbor instinctively moves away from him. “If you really want to know,” he hastily adds. “Please.”

There’s something new in Mairon’s voice now. Is he pleading? Like in a dream, Celebrimbor slowly extends his arm until his fingertips lightly touch the strange flame. He is surprised – it doesn’t burn him, but it quickly surrounds his whole hand, then runs up his arm and all the way to his shoulder. He tries to shake it off but he can’t. It’s not painful, but he doesn’t like it touching him nevertheless. The eerie flames form a stream that flows upward, an impossible stream. It continues up his neck, and when he opens his mouth to protest it flows inside him, tasting like the air around Annatar sometimes when they had had sex. The flame fills his mouth and nose and then it reaches his eyes, pouring in, and then –

And then –

Fractal flowers are born in the vast space all around him. They grow and change colour and wither and die in front of his eyes, and are reborn as something unique, always something different, impossible shapes even. They remind him of a kaleidoscope Annatar once made him as a gift. The patterns continue their eternal dance, alien and seductive at the same time. Always changing, always withering and reborn in a chaotic dance of life energy of a different kind. It fills him with wonder although chaos and change are almost too much for his immortal _fëa_. But hasn’t he once withered and died and been reborn himself? Hasn’t he danced the same dance already?

It stops abruptly, and Celebrimbor almost cries out in frustration. Surely there would be so much more to see. But the blue flame on Mairon’s palms has died out and he shakes his head sadly to Celebrimbor’s unvoiced plea.

“That’s all I can give you for now,” Mairon says. “Without the help of your ring I wouldn’t have got power to show it at all. I wonder...”

“What was it?” Celebrimbor asks quickly. He doesn’t like it when Mairon eyes Narya with that hungry look.

“Oh, that was Melkor’s music,” Mairon says softly, smiling at him.

“But it wasn’t music at all!” Celebrimbor protests.

“If not, then what was it?” Mairon raises an eyebrow, challenging him like in the good old days. “Describe it to me!”

And he tries, although it’s becoming more and more difficult to remember what he has experienced, or if he even saw those kaleidoscopic patterns at all. He wonders if he should feel somehow tainted by Morgoth’s fractal flowers, but although their chaotic dance was quite unnerving, he doesn’t think them evil.

Mairon listens to him in silence, his head slightly tilted to one side. His contemplative look reminds Celebrimbor of Annatar again, and his heart aches. He is not afraid of him any more.

“Interesting,” Mairon comments. “You must be a very visual person. It’s definitely music for us Ainur.”

“My uncle says I’m tone-deaf,” Celebrimbor admits. “But enough of this nonsense! Fine, you have shown me your master’s pretty flowers, or Music, if you like, but you still haven’t given the promised explanation for the destruction you caused. Unless you try to tell me that you were too attracted by flowers.”

Mairon gives a fey laugh. “Well said! Perhaps I was a bit too attracted by the flowers.”

Celebrimbor turns away, suddenly disappointed with Mairon’s inability to provide a satisfactory explanation. _This discussion doesn’t lead anywhere._ What was he thinking? Of course all the explanations will be insufficient. He is looking at the beautiful view, feeling numb with weariness. He can’t see Manwë’s eagle soaring in the sky anymore.

Suddenly Mairon is standing behind him, too close. He can feel the warmth of his body as he leans towards him. Celebrimbor is pretty sure that if Mairon’s hands were free those hands would be already touching him. He tenses, the edge of the cliff is too close for comfort.

“Have you ever met someone who turned your world upside down?” Mairon whispers in his ear.

 _I have met you_ , Celebrimbor thinks, but he doesn’t say it aloud for he knows that Mairon is not talking about them.

“I feel that you know what I’m meaning,” Mairon continues to whisper passionately. “Melkor did that to me. And then I lost him. He was taken from me. Ah, the knowledge of his fate, and the nagging certainty that there must be a way to help him, to release him. I promised myself I would find a way. But what is my might against the might of the Valar? I couldn’t open the Door of Night. I couldn’t even find it!” Mairon falls silent, unable to continue.

Celebrimbor refuses the instinct to turn and console the heartbroken Maia. He is weeping over the loss of Morgoth, the Great Enemy, he reminds himself. That’s hardly a thing worth weeping over. But he can’t help thinking that he has to agree. The doom of the Valar can be harsh indeed.

He can’t remember it correctly, he was so very young back then. He can’t remember the words being spoken aloud although he has learned them by heart since. What he remembers is a formidable dark figure standing above them, emitting black light and speaking in a horrible voice that made even Atya quail. The wrath of the Valar was laid upon them that day.

And finally he turns to face Mairon, not caring about the steep drop behind anymore for he knows now that his friend isn’t going to push him down. He wipes a stray tear from Mairon’s cheek, and Mairon closes his eyes before continuing.

“I have sought power ever since,” Mairon says, still keeping his eyes closed as if not daring to face him. “And I found it. You helped me find it. You’re extraordinary, did you know it? But it came at a horrible price. I didn’t see it at first. I was too hungry for power. Suddenly, you became an obstacle, and it made me furious, because it was your mind who first gave me a glimpse of what could be. But of course you saw where that would lead. Of course you refused that path.”

Celebrimbor notices in bewilderment that he hasn’t lowered his hand, but his fingers are now gently caressing Mairon’s cheek.

“You refused to give me what I thought I needed. Did you try to protect the world, or perhaps even me from myself? It doesn’t matter now. Only when it was too late, I realized you had been precious to me and I was going to lose you, too. After that, there was no hope left for you, nor for me. Only the desire for power.”

Celebrimbor is too stunned to speak. His hand is shaking lightly as he strokes Mairon’s flame-coloured hair. The Maia looks beautiful again, like he should be, one of the Beautiful Ones.

Mairon’s eyes snap open, fiery and intense, the look in them now hungry and wild.

“I still desire that power. I search it even now, oh yes, especially now that I’m weaker than ever. Your hand, Tyelpë, and that ring of yours – it revitalizes me, I can feel it when you touch me.”

It’s clearly meant as a warning, and Celebrimbor pulls his hand away, his heart beating wildly. “Mairon...” His voice is weary, and he doesn’t know what to say next. _No more of this. Not again._ Should he flee? Where’s that eagle he saw earlier?

Mairon surprises him by falling down on his knees in front of him. “Celebrimbor.” There’s a note of urgency in his voice. “I want to keep you safe from me. What happened once can’t happen again. I want to swear an oath.”

“An oath?” Celebrimbor says weakly. He forces himself to stay and listen what Mairon is going to suggest. The look in the Maia’s eyes is still quite wild. _How safe can anyone truly be near you?_

“Yes. I suppose that as Fëanor’s grandson you know how oaths work?”

“I’m familiar with the concept, yes.”

“Good. We must act quickly before I might change my mind. But this is the right thing to do, I’m sure of it. Take your sword and place it over my head now.”

“That’s my grandfather’s sword,” Celebrimbor corrects, but he does as he is told.

“Even better.” Mairon says and bows his head. “It will increase the oath’s strength.”

“And now?” Celebrimbor watches the curious sight of Mairon kneeling and bowing in front of him. He wields the ceremonial sword with two hands, its blade gently resting on Mairon’s head.

“And now listen as I swear my oath to you.”

He wants to warn Mairon against irrevocable oaths because those should not be spoken hastily, but there’s an odd fire in the Maia’s eyes that frightens him, and he doesn’t dare to stop him. He has to trust him once again.

“This I swear: never again will I hurt or harm or kill Celebrimbor son of Curufin son of Fëanor, and never will I steal from him or take his prized possessions. If I ever fail to keep this oath, may Námo Mandos imprison me, or may the Valar send my spirit into the Void for all eternity. Hear my words, Master Melkor in the Void, and his brother Manwë Súlimo here in Arda, and Námo Mandos in the cold halls of the dead!”

Celebrimbor is astonished to hear Mairon’s words that ensure his safety, but at what price? He slowly lowers his sword after Mairon has stopped speaking, but he can’t find anything to say.

“Well, it’s done,” Mairon announces with some relief in his voice. Clumsily, he gets up again. “I had to include Manwë and Námo because I am really not sure if my Master can hear any oaths in the Void. It should take effect immediately. Tyelpë, you have nothing to fear from...”

Loud barking interrupts him. They look at each other, frozen with sudden realization that the outside world still exists and wants to claim their attention.

“It’s Huan,” Celebrimbor manages to say. “They have awoken.” He wonders if Mairon will still try to flee, and if he should follow him or not. He has helped him escape, after all, and now he’ll face the consequences.

But Mairon doesn’t seem to prepare for fleeing. He raises an eyebrow, and it looks like he’d let Celebrimbor decide their next action. All right then, Celebrimbor thinks, and turns around to look at the panoramic view one last time. Huan’s bark is much closer now, and the valley echoes back the sound.

The Doors of Durin are hanging in the air in front of them, one step from the edge of the cliff. It’s not him Mairon is staring at with an astonished look, Celebrimbor realizes, but those eerie doors. And now he’s certain of their course of action.

“We need to go there,” he tells Mairon who has started to look suspicious. But what are their choices, really? Oromë and Huan and others will be there soon. “We must go through the doors,” he says again, panic rising within him.

To his great relief, Mairon nods in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments always make me happy. Two chapters left, and the final one is already written!


	5. Doom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They are waiting for us there,” Celebrimbor says. “Will you walk with me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a content warning: see the end notes (to avoid spoilers).

“That is the West-gate of Khazad-dûm,” Mairon says with a sense of wonder in his voice. “What is it doing here?”

There is no time to explain. Huan runs fast, the mighty dog will be there any minute now.

“You must trust me; I have seen this vision before, at Varda’s halls. It’s some kind of a portal, made by one of Irmo’s Maiar. I met him there. He was benevolent. Actually, he was the one who gave me Narya.”

Mairon nods again. Celebrimbor can see he’s still suspicious, but he’s clearly less eager to confront Huan than one of Irmo’s Maiar.

“All right. How do we get in?”

“There’s a password to open the door,” Celebrimbor says in a tiny voice. “Don’t you know it? Didn’t I tell it to you? I can’t remember anymore what secrets you forced me to reveal.”

“I don’t know the password. My interests were elsewhere.”

“That’s good. I didn’t betray Narvi’s kin, then. I wasn’t sure.”

“But it would be high time to reveal it now,” Mairon comments, looking suddenly distressed. “They are coming.”

Celebrimbor gives a weak smile. “It’s written on the door.”

“I have no time for riddles!” Mairon protests, but he obediently turns to study the silvery writing that hangs in the air in front of them. It’s fascinating to watch him trying to solve the little puzzle Celebrimbor has put there. How he frowns with concentration, and then visibly brightens as understanding comes to him. It doesn’t take long. The doors were made for a peaceful era, and Celebrimbor never would have believed a time would come when there would be a need for a more secure solution.

Just then the ground starts to quake violently. It is the sound of giant hooves hitting the earth and it fills them with fear. Oromë is nearby.

“I think you should say the password,” Celebrimbor tells Mairon. Although the word is already on his lips, he gets the feeling that it has to go this way to work properly.

Mairon turns to look at him and their eyes lock for a moment. “ _Mellon_ ,” he says, and his voice sends shivers down Celebrimbor’s body.

The doors start to open, but at the same time Huan appears beyond a hillock, running towards them like whirlwind. Behind him, the ground is shaking. Oromë is close by. The giant dog gives a commanding bark that even Celebrimbor understands to mean that they should freeze. They don’t. He turns again to look at the doors which are now wide open. A bridge woven of silvery thread is glimmering in the air, connecting the cliff and the doors. A glimpse at Mairon tells him that he has made the same decision.

_Now_ , Mairon speaks in his mind, the intimacy of his voice tickling him. At the same time that Huan takes a flying leap, they run up the silvery bridge and through the magical gate. The doors swing shut with a loud bang, and they find themselves in the darkness. Huan’s barking can’t be heard anymore.

“Where are we?” Mairon asks. His voice sounds odd, there seems to be no echo at all. The darkness around them seems indefinite. “I don’t like this.”

Celebrimbor doesn’t like it either. He has feared that they would end up standing in the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil like before. It would have been difficult to face all that destruction again with Mairon, with Annatar. But this intense darkness enveloping them feels even worse, and he starts to wonder if it was a good idea at all to go through the doors. But when he turns around, there is no sign of Doors of Durin anymore. _We are trapped here_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say it aloud. The weird surroundings are already making Mairon jittery enough.

“I wish there was light,” Celebrimbor says instead. “Can you make light?”

He touches Mairon’s arm gently with his hand to give him strength, ignoring a slight tingling feeling in his palm as best as he can. _It’s not pain_ , he announces silently in case of the Valar observing that the details of the oath are kept. _He’s not harming me, mind you._ A flame doesn’t appear on Mairon’s palm. Instead, the Maia’s whole being begins to glow a golden light. It makes him literally hot, and Celebrimbor has to pull his hand away.

Now he can see that they are in a great hall, numerous stone pillars are surrounding them, and to his astonishment he recognizes the place. “This is one of the halls of Khazad-dûm,” he tells Mairon who is looking around, perplexed. The light doesn’t reach the walls of that magnificent room. The dark pillars seems to stretch into infinity.

“I don’t like this,” Mairon says again. “Someone is playing with us.”

Celebrimbor tries to seek the Maia of Irmo he met in the vision the last time, but there’s no one in sight. “I think we’re supposed to go somewhere. But where?”

Mairon doesn’t have an answer for this so they just start to walk ahead, Mairon on his left. His chains make a clanging noise as he moves, and suddenly Celebrimbor wishes that he had taken the key from Eönwë’s pocket. The darkness feels sinister somehow.

“Keep your sword ready,” Mairon whispers to him. He has felt it too.

“I feel like we’re being watched,” Celebrimbor admits after they’ve slowly proceeded along the seemingly never-ending row of pillars for some time.

Mairon’s eyes flash, and he raises his voice: “Show yourself!” The command has no effect, Celebrimbor thinks at first, but then he notices a pale light ahead. It looks like it comes from an adjacent chamber.

“There!” Celebrimbor exclaims, and they move cautiously closer. They can see a huge archway on their left, and when they approach it there’s indeed something inside the now brightly lighted chamber, but at first it makes no sense.

Then it all clicks into place, and Celebrimbor retreats in horror, but his eyes are fixed on the abominable sight.

Countless bodies lie on the chamber floor. They lie in a degraded heap, mangled, mutilated and irrevocably dead. He can see many elves there, but not only them. There are dwarves, too, and men, and some bodies that are so badly mutilated that they are simply unrecognizable. Some of them are covered in dried blood, others have nasty cuts or welts in their bare skin. Hardly anyone has clothes, and if they wear anything it’s only the filthiest rags. Many are missing body parts.

And the smell! He is certain he won’t be forgetting it any time soon. The smell of battle lost, of unnumbered tears, of death and decay. The smell makes him retch, but his eyes don’t leave the scene. Once again, he is looking for familiar faces amongst the death, desperately hoping not to find them there. Where is Fingon the Valiant? Where are his friends from Gwaith-i-Mírdain? But the dead are all unfamiliar to him, nameless. Who were they?

Then he raises his eyes and, to his horror, sees an impaled, mutilated corpse staring at him with empty eye sockets, its mouth open like in silent scream, black arrows shot through its chest. Its stake stands on the hill of dead bodies like a cruel signature of evil. It takes a moment before he realizes that he is watching himself.

He is reeling. It’s all too much. He withdraws from the archway, shuddering involuntarily. _I can’t breathe_. He slumps against one of the stone pillars, heaving and shaking. His eyes are closed, but he can sense Mairon is there with him. The Maia is saying something, but it takes some time until the words whispered in his ear make any sense to him.

“It’s not real,” Mairon says over and over again, kneeling beside him. “It’s just a cruel vision.”

The woozy feeling gradually subsides and Celebrimbor is able to open his eyes again. Mairon’s face is very close and he looks almost worried.

“It was once real, however,” Celebrimbor says weakly. “We both know it.”

Mairon stays silent for a long time. Finally, Celebrimbor summons up all the strength he has left and stands up. He tries not to look towards the chamber of horrors.

“This must be the Fëanturi mindfucking us,” Mairon mutters to him, and marches vehemently back to the nightmarish chamber. He glows like a flame now. “They clearly want to remind you of our common history.”

“I don’t think I need a reminder, thank you!” Celebrimbor announces to the invisible Powers that must watch them somewhere.

“I’ll burn the bloody chamber down.” Mairon’s voice is furious, but even though he seems to concentrate hard, nothing happens. He turns to look at Celebrimbor who stands in the shadows. “There’s indeed something wrong with me, I can’t seem to... Can you lend me your power again?”

“Mairon, come away. You can’t wipe out the past. Come away, please.”

“Tyelpë...”

“Mairon, please.” He can feel the creeping coldness in the air. Hasn’t Mairon noticed it already? “I don’t think it’s in your power to change anything there.” There is a new glimmer of light beyond the stone pillars. Three mighty figures stand there. Celebrimbor starts to say something, but Mairon has seen them too, or perhaps felt them. The fire in his eyes dims, the beautiful glimmer of his body dwindles.

“Draw your sword out,” Mairon whispers to him, sounding almost frightened all of a sudden. But he steps away from the archway of that horrific room, for which Celebrimbor is grateful.

“I will not threaten the Valar.”

There’s an odd helplessness in Mairon’s voice as he splutters: “Fine! Do it your way, then.”

“They are waiting for us there,” Celebrimbor says. The coldness is everywhere now. He doesn’t like it, but it must be much worse for Mairon. “Will you walk with me?”

Just for an instant he thinks Mairon is going to refuse, but then he gives a tiny nod, and a sense of relief fills Celebrimbor. They walk side by side in the darkness, past the numerous stone pillars, always towards the light that is waiting for them patiently. Again Celebrimbor wishes that Mairon’s hands were unchained; not to free his powers, but because he would have liked them holding hands.

The three figures stand tall and motionless, watching as they slowly approach them. Námo Mandos stands in the middle, and Celebrimbor is not surprised by his presence. Ever since he has felt the coldness of Mandos he has been certain of it. Celebrimbor kneels and bows in front of him, he dares not to. Mairon stays standing, but even he has bowed his head. No one speaks, moments pass, and finally Celebrimbor decides to get up. He goes standing close to Mairon whose body is slightly trembling. The Valar stay silent, studying them.

On Námo’s right stands a Vala who must be Irmo Lórien, Master of Visions. Even though Celebrimbor can’t remember meeting him unless perhaps in dream, Irmo greets him with an all-knowing smile. Bitter thoughts arise in Celebrimbor’s mind. _Oh, you must think you know me so well, making us face those horrible visions from my nightmares. You don’t know me at all!_ Irmo’s smile fades away as if he had said his thoughts aloud. Can those beings read his mind? There’s a moment of panic, but he manages to push it down. He has to stay strong for Mairon.

On Námo’s left stands one of the Valier, it takes a little longer for him to recognize her as Vairë. She doesn’t smile, but when she turns her eyes at him Celebrimbor is touched by welcoming warmth that eases his mind. Perhaps he can regard Vairë as a protector of his family?

Then Irmo raises his hand, and Mairon collapses on the floor. Celebrimbor cries out. He kneels and bends over Mairon, but his friend is overcome by deathlike sleep and doesn’t stir.

Námo’s grim voice makes him raise his head. “We meet again, Tyelperinquar Curufinwion. You keep strange company, but we are thankful that you have led him here.”

Celebrimbor’s heart is beating fast. He has no time for courtesies. He can’t help thinking that the Valar have lured them into a trap. “Wake him up, please.” The words are meant for Irmo, but the Lord of Lórien only shakes his head.

“We want to speak with you first,” Námo says. Celebrimbor feels suddenly very cold and alone, like he had returned to the Halls of Mandos. Reluctantly, he stands up again.

“Fine, I’m listening.”

To his surprise it’s Vairë who speaks next. She looks regal in her lavishly embroidered, multi-coloured dress that shimmers in the eerie light that surrounds the Valar. “You have your grandfather’s good looks, and perhaps even a bit of his spirit. You are also attracted by the beauty even though it may burn you.”

Her words evoke vivid memories of Annatar, at first the good ones, but they soon change into more painful ones. For a while he is overwhelmed by those bad memories.

“Stop messing with my mind,” he manages to say in the end, and the flow of memories stops abruptly. After it’s over he finds himself shaking.

“We just want to make sure you understand who you are dealing with,” Námo says. “That being is corrupted by Moringotto.”

“That being is my friend.”

“Until he betrays you again,” Námo says in a cold voice. “I can see now what a clever manipulator that pesky Maia is.”

“He swore that he’ll never harm me again.” Celebrimbor knows he’s being stubborn, but he can’t help it now. He finds the concern of the Valar rather irksome. “You must be aware of the oath, Lord Mandos.”

“I am aware of it. Although I think it’s just a clever plan to get him united with his fallen master in the Void. A vain attempt that will be! I will make sure that if he ever breaks that oath, he’ll stay in my halls forever, alone and without hope.”

_You mean like my grandfather?_ The rebellious thought startles Celebrimbor, as does a flash of anger that fills his mind for an instant, but it doesn’t seem as though Námo has noticed. For the first time he feels he can understand why Fëanor wanted to leave Valinor. “I only ask you to let me make my own mistakes,” he finally says aloud, trying not to show the anger that is boiling within him. It’s not wise to provoke the Lord of the Dead, and he fears he has done that already.

“You haven’t chosen an easy way.” Irmo’s voice is soothing, almost too soothing. “We’re here to give you a choice. You can get rid of those nightmares.”

“Let Námo take Sauron away,” Vairë adds. “You have only to ask, and he’ll take your torturer to his Halls. You’ll be free again.”

Celebrimbor feels Námo’s watchful eye on him. The Valar are waiting for his next words. Instinctively, he steps closer to sleeping Mairon, a hand on the hilt of his sword, but he doesn’t draw it, not yet. “You won’t take him away. I won’t allow it. I only ask you to wake him up.”

The Valar stare at him in disbelief. Or perhaps not all of them. Vairë gives a melancholic smile to him as she speaks: “Their fates have truly been interwoven. So be it, then.”

Celebrimbor notices that he is still quivering. A fear of losing Mairon for ever has been almost unbearable. He doesn’t know what to think of it. “Wake him up, now,” he commands Irmo in a cold voice, and to his relief the Vala raises his hand again and speaks a weird word that sounds like thunder. Mairon opens his eyes and jumps to his feet quicker than Celebrimbor would have thought possible, especially as the Maia is still in chains.

“It’s all right!” Celebrimbor shouts and puts an arm around Mairon’s slightly trembling shoulder. “I have spoken with them; they won’t harm you now.”

“Tyelperinquar has indeed spoken for you,” Vairë adds, looking at Mairon with her piercing black eyes. “You should be grateful. He’s showing you mercy that you haven’t deserved. He opposed Námo taking you away.”

Mairon turns to look at Celebrimbor, his eyes wide and questioning. Celebrimbor doesn’t fear him any more. He feels that he has saved a precious flower from withering.

“He must still face Lord Manwë’s judgement,” Námo announces grimly. “He has committed heinous crimes. He might end up in my halls after all.”

Mairon lowers his gaze. Celebrimbor can feel his friend is afraid although he doesn’t want it to show.

“I want to plead mercy for him,” Celebrimbor says.

Námo gives him an irritated look. “This is the matter of the Valar. The incarnates are not allowed there.”

Celebrimbor feels the warmth that is radiating from Mairon. He wants to believe in his redemption, but he knows that it’s not that simple. Mairon is a spirit of fire, he’ll be always burning. Doesn’t fire mean change and destruction? But perhaps his friend can learn to harness that power, to use it well? Like they do in a forge?

“I suppose there’s no other way?” Celebrimbor asks, and the severity of the matter makes him lower his gaze.

“No. He must go to the Ring of Doom to be judged.”

_Or he can flee, and continue to live as a free spirit. Weak and alone, finally fading._ Are those his own thoughts, or is someone else speaking in his mind? Celebrimbor can’t be sure, but he thinks Vairë is smiling faintly.

That’s not a fate he wishes for Mairon. He must only hope that the Valar are merciful. _Please, surrender._

“I surrender,” Mairon says in a tiny voice that quivers a little. He keeps his eyes down as he suddenly kneels down in an elegant movement, a gesture of submission. Celebrimbor’s heart melts at the sight of it.

It feels like his words had broken a spell. The dark surroundings start instantly fading around them, and the Fëanturi vanish from sight. Celebrimbor finds himself back on the grassy cliff with Mairon. The Doors of Durin have disappeared, but from behind he can hear the loud bark of Huan as the giant dog jumps on Mairon, making him fall down in the grass.

“I said I surrender,” Mairon declares, more loudly now, as Huan immobilizes him. Not much later, Oromë is there as well, and then also Eönwë and Celegorm. His uncle gives him a meaningful glance, but doesn’t say anything. He must think he is past saving.

“Don’t hurt him, please,” Celebrimbor hastily says before they take Mairon back to the camp. To his relief, Eönwë nods in agreement.

* * * * *

“You can’t come further.” There’s a note of pity in Eönwë’s voice as he turns to speak to Celebrimbor.

They have been riding a long time, mostly silent, towards Valmar. The deep forests of Oromë have changed into the grassy plains, the Pelóri rising in the distance as they proceed towards their destination. Celebrimbor would have liked to show them to Mairon, to compare them with the mountains of Middle-earth. He is sure Mairon would have liked to tell his opinions on the matter. But he hasn’t been allowed to talk to Mairon after he has surrendered. Most of the journey back Mairon is carried on horseback like a sack of flour, bound and gagged again, and others don’t let Celebrimbor close to him. Only after their final rest, when they are close to Valmar, they let Mairon walk. It slows them down, especially as his ankles are still chained, but Celebrimbor dreads the end of their journey so much that he thinks it’s better this way.

Finally they stand in the crossroads, and Eönwë says those dreaded words to him. _You can’t come further._ Celebrimbor can see the paved road that leads to Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom.

“Please, let me talk to him,” Celebrimbor pleads. “He won’t do anything stupid; I promise you that.” He has told them about the oath, of course, and about the meeting with the Fëanturi, although he suspects Oromë already knew those things before he had spoken.

There’s that pity again in Eönwë’s eyes, but his heart leaps in anticipation as he sees that the Maia doesn’t decline his wish outright, but turns to consult Oromë.

“All right, then,” Eönwë says. “But be quick, and remember that we’re watching you.”

Mairon’s eyes never leave his as Celebrimbor approaches. The thought that this could be the last time he sees him fills Celebrimbor with dread. He doesn’t want to let go of him. But he knows that Mairon has to face the judgement of Manwë.

“I have forgiven you.” Celebrimbor gives a laugh that soon turns hysterical. “I didn’t believe it would happen, but it’s true.”

Mairon tries to say something, too, but there’s that awful gag on his mouth that makes his voice muffled.

“I’m going to take that stupid thing away,” Celebrimbor announces, then decides that he doesn’t need to wait for the others’ approval. Thankfully, they don’t stop him. And thankfully, Mairon behaves himself and doesn’t sing them into sleep again. He wipes a dribble of saliva from the corner of his mouth, wishing that the Maia hadn’t been put in such a vulnerable position.

“Thank you, Tyelpë dear,” Mairon says, moving his chained arms in a futile attempt to touch him. Then he narrows his eyes, looking slightly mischievous as he continues: “Remember the flowers.”

Celebrimbor just wants to wipe that mischievous, all-knowing grin from his friend’s lips. He bends down to kiss him, too violently at first, he fears, but Mairon doesn’t seem to care. He answers the kiss eagerly, and once again he feels the sparks of the Maia’s essence on his parted lips, and a soft tingle as Mairon’s tongue explores his mouth. _This is not pain_ , he thinks furiously in case that Námo is somewhere monitoring the details of the oath. He embraces Mairon, hoping that he could free his hands so that he could hug him back.

But their short time together is coming to an end already. Mairon is taken from him, Eönwë is already leading him away. Suddenly he fears that this is the last time he sees Mairon. Námo was all too eager to imprison him in his halls.

“Will I see him again?” he shouts to Eönwë, but Manwë’s herald doesn’t answer and neither does Mairon. He has turned away from Celebrimbor, his flame-red hair covering his eyes from view, already facing the paved road ahead. Celebrimbor doesn’t want to say a farewell greeting, it would only emphasize the finality of the moment.

Suddenly his uncle is there with him, his hand touching his shoulder. Celebrimbor is prepared for his taunts -didn’t he just kiss Þauron- but surprisingly Celegorm only manages to make a feeble complaint: “Is everyone in this family raving mad!”

“I don’t know,” Celebrimbor answers, still watching as Mairon walks away from him, towards his fate. “Perhaps Nerdanel isn’t?”

“She married my father!” Celegorm sighs.

“I could have pleaded with Námo to release grandpa Fëanor,” Celebrimbor admits. “I just didn’t dare to annoy him.”

Celegorm laughs a long, bitter laugh. “I guess you annoyed him enough by appearing there with a servant of Morgoth.”

Mairon has already vanished from sight. Celebrimbor turns to face his uncle now. “He’s not all evil. Don’t say anything, I know what you’re going to say. Don’t say it now, for I fear that the judgement of the Valar is harsh and that I won’t see him again.”

Suddenly Huan is there with them, poking him with his nose. Huan wants to go home. Actually, Celebrimbor wants it, too. There’s nothing he can do but wait for the judgement of the Valar. And after that, who knows? Does he even dare to imagine a future for them two?

He smiles to himself. No one has ever said that he lacks imagination.

Let’s go home,” he says at last, and Celegorm brightens up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: this chapter has some disturbing imagery of dead bodies.
> 
> One chapter left! This is where we leave Celebrimbor for now, though. The last chapter will be from Mairon's POV.


	6. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mairon faces the judgment of Manwë. It doesn't go as smoothly as Manwë has hoped.

Eönwë leads the way to the Ring of Doom, and reluctantly Mairon follows his oldest friend. Was the decision to surrender the right one? He doesn’t trust the Valar, he doesn’t know what they are capable of doing. Or, in fact, he does. The thought doesn’t comfort him. The Vala he has vowed to serve will not be there, and if Manwë’s might is even close to that of his brother, Mairon can only hope that his judgment will not be as harsh.

The sound of his steps and clinking of chains fill the otherwise silent hall as he walks across the marble floor towards the Máhanaxar. He has never seen a more grandiose hall, not even in Númenor, and he starts to understand that this is only just one example of the might of Aman. The air pulses with power, bringing back distant memories from the Spring of Arda. They have built it all again here in Valinor! It fascinates him against his will. But the thrones surrounding the circle are ominous, and he tries to avoid looking at them. When he comes closer, though, he sees the thrones are empty – for now.

The silence hurts him. Finally, Eönwë takes his hand and guides him to the middle of the circle. There are ornamental decorations on the floor. In the middle there is a glimmering star-shaped mosaic that looks like it has been made of Varda’s stardust. Clearly, he is meant to stand on it, but he hesitates.

“Are you going to leave me now?” he asks Eönwë, suddenly hating the pleading tone that has appeared in his voice.

“I will be here with you,” Eönwë promises. “Until it’s over. I’ll be standing here, beside you, all the time.”

His voice is so gentle, and Mairon feels relief until he remembers that Eönwë will also hear about his deeds and will despise them. He will hear Manwë’s judgment, and in the end, he will perhaps take Mairon away. Mairon is still standing hand in hand with Eönwë, but suddenly he doesn’t want to be touched by that pure being anymore, and he pulls back his hand.

Eönwë looks startled, and Mairon mutters something, realizing that he really can’t explain what he feels right now.

“Let’s get this over with,” Mairon only whispers to him. The atmosphere in the room feels so oppressive. There are no incarnates here, it’s not their business, like Námo had explained to Celebrimbor. He notices that his hands are violently shaking. Like a pitiful slave of Angband brought to Melkor, he is now trembling in front of Manwë’s throne. Well, there’s a certain irony there.

As soon as he steps on the glimmering star, the pulse of the power that has filled the room strengthens. The thrones are not empty any more. And yet Mairon hasn’t seen anyone entering the room. But they are all here now, the Powers of Arda. All except his Master. He doesn’t dare to look around, though. Like in a dream, he finds himself facing Manwë Súlimo, and Manwë’s breath makes him go down and kneel almost against his will.

When Manwë speaks to him, his voice is like thunder, making his hair standing on end. But the words are not what he expected to hear. Not an accusation, but a greeting.

“Welcome to Valinor, Maia Mairon.”

He finds out he can’t open his mouth to answer; the Valar won’t let him speak just yet. He finds odd comfort in Eönwë’s serene presence on his right.

“So many Ages have passed since you went astray.”

It is one simple sentence, but for Mairon it feels like a lifetime. All his choices and deeds since he left Almaren come back to him – he is forced to live his life again, all the bad parts, and the good parts too, and for a moment he is thankful to Manwë that he is allowed to relive even all those sacred memories.

In the blink of eye it’s over, but the horrible certainty fills him now: the Valar have seen all of it, too. Somehow, Manwë has given them a look into Mairon’s mind like he was a crystal container, and Mairon senses that they don’t like what they have experienced.

The whispers of the Valar fill Mairon’s head now. He hears angry Oromë and horrified Yavanna, there’s also gloomy Námo and Nienna whose grieving words bring him odd sadness. They are talking about him in distaste, their voices continually rising in volume and power. Soon they are discussing his deeds in a heated way, and it’s clear they don’t find anything good in the discord he has followed. How different from them his Master is! He stops listening, feigning indifference, although there’s one voice he still awaits, one voice missing from the cacophony of others.

His old Master Aulë doesn’t say a word, and for some reason that feels worse than blatant rejection.

How long does it take to recite all his deeds since he joined Melkor? He has lost the sense of time already, but then it’s over, and the huge hall falls suddenly silent. He doesn’t dare to move, not even to breathe. If he breathes, it could be his last breath in Arda. He doesn’t want it to happen.

A loud bell starts to ring, once, twice, thrice. Its sound is beautiful, but also full of longing and sorrow. When the last echoes of the sound have faded, Manwë speaks again. His voice is as sorrowful as the sound of the bell.

“Have you got anything to say in your defence, Mairon?”

Now that he is finally able to speak, the words won’t come. He only shakes his head slowly, and Eönwë beside him looks shocked as he misses his moment of repentance.

“Námo Mandos says he would have already taken you to his halls but for your Elven friend,” Manwë continues. “For some reason, Tyelperinquar Curufinwion spoke for your defence.”

Mairon knows he can’t stay silent now, so he speaks: “That’s a mercy I don’t deserve. I wasn’t merciful to him myself.”

The Valar start to whisper again around him, agitated. It’s clear that they know of the implied calamity, but he is beyond caring. He remembers Tyelpë’s lips against his, their wonderful warmth. After all that had happened between them, Tyelpë still bent down to kiss him in the end. Was that mercy, or something else?

It won’t take long, he knows. Any moment now, Manwë will pass the sentence that will either doom him to the Void or send him to the everlasting loneliness of Mandos’s halls. Which one will it be? He hopes for the Void. Should he even beg the Valar to let him join his Master there? However, he finds out that he fears the Void too much to say the words aloud.

Beside Mairon, Eönwë blows his horn like a good herald should, and shouts out the dreaded words: “Hear the judgment of Manwë!”

Mairon doesn’t dare to look up at Manwë’s eyes. But the voice that speaks next doesn’t belong to Manwë Súlimo. No, it’s the voice he remembers having loved once.

“I will take him,” says Aulë the Smith solemnly somewhere behind Mairon. “I will take him back.”

“That is not the judgment of Manwë!” Yavanna exclaims in horrified disbelief.

“Oh, but it is. Isn’t it, Lord Manwë?” Aulë’s steady steps echo in the hall as he slowly comes closer. “I made my request a couple of days ago, not on a whim but after careful consideration. Lord Manwë promised me that my request would be granted if I repeated the words at the Máhanaxar, which I have now done.”

Many voices start to speak at once, but Manwë’s thunderous voice disrupts the impending chaos.

“Aulë speaks the truth. I promised him he is allowed to take back his renegade Maia because I saw how much that means to him. Remember, he has already proved it can be done, with the other one.” Manwë’s too bright eyes fix on Mairon, and it’s impossible now to avoid his piercing gaze. “Well has Aulë named you, Mairon, for even now there are some who are able to see your wondrous flame beyond all that corruption my brother has caused. You should be grateful.”

However, Mairon feels only numbness as he slowly processes Aulë’s request in his mind. He knows this is his way out of the impending threat of imprisonment or annihilation, and he should humbly accept it. He knows how it goes, he’s a survivor, he has done this before! But something has changed. He doesn’t want to pretend to be someone else any more, to Aulë least of all. He hesitates before he says the words that will surely seal his own doom, but finally he breathes out and speaks, his voice weak compared to thunderous Manwë, but still full of pride.

“I already have a Master, although he is not here. Whatever you ask me to do, I am never going to leave him.”

The ring of Máhanaxar is now filled with such clamour that even Manwë’s voice can’t be heard over shocked exclamations and angry demands for justice and penalty. Their menacing voices fill his head, and for a moment he fears that Námo will stand up and take him away to his halls just to calm the Valar.

“Heretic!” someone shouts. It could have been Tulkas.

“How dare you!” A cold and bright voice, and all too menacing. Varda, most probably.

In the cacophony of voices, Mairon too late hears the steps that are drawing closer. Anticipating an attack, he quickly turns his head and tries to get up. The chains and manacles on his wrists and ankles don’t make the movements easy. He finds himself stumbling, and then sturdy arms take hold of him, preventing him from falling.

Mairon finds himself staring into Aulë’s deep eyes. The great smith shouts no accusations at him. Actually, he doesn’t say a word. His steady hands come to rest on Mairon’s shoulders. The touch doesn’t feel hostile, and a feeling of panic gradually subsides. When the Valar notice that one of them has dared to break through the invisible barrier between holy and corrupted beings, they all finally fall silent, even Manwë.

“Your Master is not here, Mairon,” Aulë says in a soothing voice. “It’s not so unusual for a Maia to dwell at the house of another Vala for a while. I don’t demand your servitude. I’m offering you a place to abide.”

A weariness is threatening to overwhelm Mairon, but Aulë’s words stir long-forgotten feelings in his heart. He is surprised that Aulë still wants to take him back despite his loyalty to Melkor, but he knows there are worse places to live than in the mansions of Aulë.

All eyes are on him as he proudly raises his head and answers: “In that case, I accept your offer.”

Several of the Valar raise their objections, but Manwë gestures for them to be silent.

“There are certain terms for this sentence,” Manwë says. “You will not be free. Lord Aulë will be your supervisor, if not your master. You won’t leave his Halls until he gives you permission, and first you need to show genuine repentance.”

He feels only a sense of relief as he says: “I understand the terms, and will follow them.”

“Then it’s settled. Lord Aulë will take you under supervision.” The voices of the Valar rise again, but Manwë isn’t bothered by them. “Only the act of binding remains, then. You can proceed, Aulë.”

“The act of binding?” Mairon gives a startled exclamation. The words sound ominous and he is suddenly fearful again. He happens to know a lot about binding magic, how cruel and oppressive it can be. They wouldn’t take away his free will, would they?

“It’s all right.” Aulë’s hands feel warm on his shoulders, their touch so unlike Melkor’s. _He thinks his touch comforts me_ , he understands, and perhaps it does, a little. But there’s something lacking from that touch, something fierce and purifying, like a secret fire known only by a few. He knows Aulë can never give it to him, although he seems to try his best.

“It is only meant to prevent you from going missing again,” Aulë continues. He takes a band of metal from a pouch of his. It’s made of a strange alloy, its vibration unfamiliar to him. Mairon doesn’t know how the magic of it works, and it scares him.

Aulë helps him to get standing again and stoops down to unlock the manacles on his ankles and wrists. If Mairon had thought of fleeing, this would be the moment. But where would he go? He decides to stand still despite of the threatening metal object Aulë is holding.

“I’m going to put this band around your ankle,” Aulë explains like he was still his pupil and not a convict. “Then I’ll fasten it with Song. It may feel weird, but it’s nothing much really.”

“Will it affect me... somehow? Will I still be... me afterwards?” He hates how tiny his voice has become.

_Trust me_ , Aulë’s eyes seem to say as he starts to roll up the bottom of Mairon’s pants on one side, revealing his ankle. The panic rises again, but he forces it go down. The metal alloy feels cold against the skin of his ankle. It shrinks in harmony of Aulë’s Song and becomes heavier, too intrusive. He can’t take it off.

Aulë’s Song is powerful now. Once upon a time, Mairon followed that music all the way to Arda. It’s his earliest memory, and not bad at all. He can stay within that song again, at least for a while.

“The binding is complete,” Aulë declares to the other Valar staring at them. No one raises any objections now. What’s done is done.

“How does it work?” Mairon finds himself asking. Worried, he studies his own spirit, searching any signs for irreversible alteration, but he only finds some copper-coloured strands that weren’t there before. They don’t feel malicious and he’s sure he could snap them off if he wanted.

“It binds you to me and my Halls”, Aulë tells him. “You can’t leave my side or my land up until the ankle band is removed. I have promised to take you back, but Manwë needs to be sure that you stay... contained.”

“And what if I leave?” he asks, stubbornly.

“Please, don’t. The power of the binding will destroy your body and bring your naked spirit straight to Mandos’s gates.”

Mairon is sure somewhere behind him Námo is eyeing him like a hungry vulture, but he doesn’t dare to turn around and look.

“So it’s a conditional discharge,” he says, surprised that the Valar really are going to give him a second chance. Aulë is serious about this, he realizes, just like Tyelpë was.

“Very much so,” Aulë confirms.

Eönwë still stands on his side, just as he promised, back straight and holding his funny little trumpet. When Mairon turns to face his former friend, Eönwë has a soft smile on his face.

Mairon has something more like a self-satisfied smirk on his when he speaks. “Tell Manwë that I have conditions, too,” he says to the herald. Poor Eönwë seems suddenly nonplussed.

“I heard that, no need to repeat the words,” Manwë’s thunderous voice says from his throne when Eönwë still after a while looks like he can’t even breathe and even less speak. “In your current situation, Mairon, you are hardly in a position to negotiate about anything.”

“I have only one condition,” Mairon says boldly. He knows he can’t be silent, not any more. He has stopped being a deceiver.

The Valar are completely silent for once. Eönwë looks at him, dreading his next words.

“Declare me the Herald of Melkor. I’ll be his emissary here in Aman.”

Mairon ignores the shouts of anger from the haughty Valar on their thrones. Aulë doesn’t say anything, but he looks rather disappointed by Mairon’s words. Manwë stays silent for a long time, and Mairon fears that this time he has gone too far. Manwë has all the signs of rising anger although the King of Arda still pretends to be calm and in control of the situation. Mairon knows what will happen when anger like that explodes, and he quivers. Too often he has seen it happen to his Master in the past, and sometimes he has greatly suffered because of it.

But as always, he is too stubborn to take his words back. So he waits patiently despite the growing instinct to yield, and finally Manwë answers.

“He is hardly in need of an emissary when he doesn’t even have a realm of his own,” Manwë mutters between his teeth. “He’s not in this world anymore as you very well know.”

“That’s just why he needs a special envoy,” Mairon snaps before he can stop himself. “A spokesperson. And I’m perfect for the job.”

“He was cast out into the Timeless Void. He can’t communicate with you from there. How can you claim to be a spokesperson for him if you don’t know his wishes?”

Mairon can’t stay silent now. “Trust me, I have become quite skilled at understanding his wishes and needs in the course of the eons.”

Finally he manages to stop himself and lowers his eyes, knowing too well that the situation is balanced on a knife-edge. Has he gone too far? Will they send him to Mandos after all?

“I don’t think it’s too much trouble, Lord,” Aulë’s gentle voice interrupts them, surprising Mairon. “It’s clearly important to him, even though the others regard the whole thing as a meaningless act. I don’t see why he couldn’t be... an emissary.”

“I see,” says Manwë. His voice is oddly lacking its thunderous power now. “Be an emissary of the Void then. But Aulë, my friend, are you still comfortable about taking him living under your roof when he claims to be an envoy of the enemy?”

“As I said, I don’t demand his servitude. I only act as his supervisor, if he still wants that. Do you, Mairon?”

He turns to look at the towering shape of Aulë, a shape full of warmth and happiness. His former Master looks at him with a raised eyebrow, waiting.

“I do.”

“Good,” Aulë says. “I guess it’s all settled then. He’s bound by my Song, and rather harmless, if I may say so myself. Noble beings of the Máhanaxar, do any of you oppose me if I now take him away?”

No one speaks.

Aulë bows deeply to Manwë on his throne. Then he turns to face Mairon, extending his hand to him. Reluctantly, Mairon takes his warm hand and allows himself to be led out.

“Let’s go home,” Aulë says to him.

* * * * *

A little boy is sitting on Aulë’s gate, keeping a lookout or playing on his own, it seems. It’s an uncommon sight. Mairon hasn’t seen many children lately, and none in Aman, although there have to be some around, haven’t there?

The boy seems to be waiting for them and, indeed, when Mairon and Aulë walk closer, he raises his little hand and gives them an eager wave. The boy almost loses his balance while doing this, but at the last moment he gets a grip on one of the metal ornaments and restores his posture.

Aulë waves his hand at the boy, grinning.

“One of your students?” Mairon is suddenly curious about the boy. “He’s a little young for the forge, isn’t he?”

His ankle band vibrates as he approaches the gate of his new prison. No, not a prison. Home, of a sort. Perhaps a kind of orphanage for lost souls, he thinks.

The little elfling watches them intently as they walk closer. His dark eyes make Mairon uncomfortable for some reason. Like he could read his mind, like he knew who he is and what he has done.

“Oh, you brought him back!” the boy exclaims. “I never doubted it!”

Mairon freezes. The boy is no elfling. “No,” he manages to say. “I won’t stay here with him.”

Aulë seems to enjoy his stupid prank. “So you recognized Curumo? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you he’ll be here as well. I was afraid you would do something rash, like begging Mandos to take you instead. You’ll be fine. Curumo has promised to leave you alone. He’s only a bit curious to see you again, I guess.”

Mairon stares at the elfling-Maia, old as a universe and looking like an innocent child, which he certainly is not.

“You don’t fool me,” he says coldly to Curumo. “And you won’t get my sympathy. Perhaps if you turned into a wolf pup...”

“He can’t change his form,” Aulë says quickly. “He arrived at my gates one day looking like this. It’s the only form he has left. He remembers his past, but doesn’t like to speak about it. He’s pretty much like any elfling boy at the moment.”

“I have my doubts about that.”

Curumo hops down and Aulë opens the gate for them. Mairon hesitates a moment before entering. When he left Aulë’s Halls long time ago to follow the call of the enigmatic power he never thought he would come back. No, he hasn’t planned any of this.

Aulë beams at him. “Welcome home.”

He needs to start making new plans, then. The thought gives him courage and he enters the prison the Valar have prepared for him.

At least it is a prison with a forge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, what a journey it has been! This is the end of the story, but also a start of a series that I'll most possibly continue later. I hope you have enjoyed reading this. <3


End file.
